


Awake or Asleep

by KentuckyFriedChilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Horror, Humor, M/M, Mental Illness, Nightmares, Paranormal Romance, WEIRDO, recluse meets wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-01 16:26:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12708630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KentuckyFriedChilton/pseuds/KentuckyFriedChilton
Summary: Sequel to 'Trick or Treat'Will Graham is an extremely introverted and sensitive guy living on several acres in Maryland, fixing boat engines for cash and trying to live life as simply and painlessly as possible. He has never been involved with the FBI/criminal profiling. Will likes dogs and fishing (duh), which is enough for him until a mysterious being shows up. Is it real or is Will slipping into madness? Does it matter?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Suicidal and light-hearted is sorta the tone I'm going for here.

  
  
It’s been thirteen days since the evening the stag-man followed me home.  
  
I didn’t mean to lure him that night. It just happened, and not wanting to be a tease, I gave him the treat that I’d inadvertently offered. He took the apple from my hand, seemingly satisfied, and has not visited again. I’m relieved, reluctant to relive the deep fear and unfamiliar thrill his presence stirred in me. I’m also disappointed, because he is so clearly different, and I can relate.  
  
_Stag-man_ is how I think of him, not knowing his name or actual species, though I imagine he defies taxonomic classification. Maybe it’s obvious that he’s a supernatural being, but I’m trying to maintain my grip on reality, which was tenuous at best before he appeared.  
  
I desperately want to believe that he’s more than a hallucination. I prefer not to think of myself as mentally ill, but I accepted long ago that I’m psychologically vulnerable, and staying away from people in general is my best method of self-defense. Maybe I’ve insulated myself too well, and can’t see that I’ve been slipping. Have slipped.  
  
Whether it’s true or not, I let him be real.  
  
In the spirit of sanity, I’ve been attempting to behave as a person should in response to this situation. Though I enjoy walking at night, I’ve convinced myself to stay indoors after sunset. During daylight hours I’ve been more watchful than usual, looking up at regular intervals from the boat engine I’m working on to scan the tree line. I’ve been keeping the rifle next to me, to show him or myself that I’m not defenseless.  
  
As careful as I am while awake, my subconscious has always had more than its fair share of power over me, and I’ve been dreaming of him. At least, I think I’m dreaming. For twelve nights he lingers by the windows, watching silently, waiting patiently.  
  
On the thirteenth night the dream is different. I’m in the woods, lying naked in the tall grass near the creek. I can’t move; my body is heavy as stone. After a time, he comes to me and crouches down, bringing his face close to mine as if checking to make sure I’m aware of what is about to happen. He presses his mouth to the place where my neck meets my jaw and begins to lick. His tongue, startlingly long, the same deep grey color as his skin, caresses my throat, clavicles, the dip in my sternum, hip bones, with gentle yet insistent strokes, and I realize that he is consuming me in thin layers. I feel everything, yet I know I’m not made of flesh and blood. I’m a salt lick, formed in the shape of a man. Though by the time he’s done with me I resemble nothing human.  
  
I awake slicked in sweat, tasting my own salt, aching in places that surprise me and make me vaguely ashamed.  
  
It must be his antlers that reminded me of a deer, and the mineral blocks hunters use to attract their prey.  
  
The claws and pointed eyeteeth, however, are distinctly predatory.  
  
I rise and fling open the window, startling the dogs, to reveal an unseasonably warm November morning. A white-and-gray day, cocooned in fog, which welcomes and gentles my faded existence.  
  
It’s good weather for fishing, and I can’t resist. I tend to the dogs, shower, and dress. I gather my gear and head into the woods, leaving the rifle behind. I go to the creek, to the place where I first saw him, and wade out waist-deep.  
  
This is more about letting my mind unreel along with the line than it is about catching anything. The mist is hovering low on the water, where it curls and twists in entrancing patterns. I lose track of time completely, my focus becoming as diffuse as the soft light.  
  
At first I think there’s a branch floating towards me, but it’s moving against the current. I freeze as I realize it’s a pair of antlers, moving almost comically above the water. I get the feeling he’s mocking his own stealth while alerting me to his presence. The antlers stop beside me and the stag-man rises elegantly to his full height. My heart is thundering. I hear myself say, “Hi.”  
  
“Hi,” he replies, the sepulchral timbre of his voice causing me to shudder.  
  
I realize that it’s my turn to speak. Staring at the droplets of water running down his bare chest, I manage, “You don’t…feel the cold?”  
  
“Don’t feel the cold. You?”  
  
It’s a simple question, but it takes me a long time to answer. I’m trembling with fear, not cold, but I'd rather not announce that to him. “I’m okay.”  
  
He sinks down in the water and lets himself drift downstream, and for a moment I think he’s leaving, but then he stands again, near to where I’ve cast my fly. He hunches over slightly and peers into the water, becoming absolutely motionless. I’m concerned that the fly is too close to him; I have no intention of finding out how he’ll react if I accidentally hook him. I reel in my line and cast again in a different direction, without taking my eyes off him.  
  
After a few minutes, I perceive the slightest movement in his lithe arms, and he draws his hands out of the water holding a large fish. He delicately hooks the claw of his index finger through its lip and closes the loop with his thumb so it can’t wriggle free. He makes his way back to me and holds his catch out at arm’s-length, as if wary of invading my personal space. Maybe he can smell my fear. “Are you hungry?” he asks.  
  
“Oh…for me? Thank you.”  
  
In response, he drives a claw into the fish’s brain, pithing it quickly to kill it. He then severs the gill rakers, bleeding it out. A humane method that preserves the quality of the flesh. I watch the blood dripping into the water, morbidly impressed.  
  
I open the creel and he places the fish inside, then floats back to the spot where he was before. He soon catches another. I accept it, too, and he dispatches it the same way. This process continues over the next few hours, and I begin to wonder if he’s using some sort of magic.  
  
The fog encircles us, permissive of whatever is happening within our little world. My fear of impending bodily harm dwindles as he continues to not kill me.  
  
I eventually reel in a speckled trout and my prowess as a fisherman is preserved. He draws near and watches intently as I stun it with the handle of my knife, bleed it out, and put it in the creel, which is now so full I can barely close it. “I can’t eat all of this myself,” I murmur without thinking.  
  
He looks at me expectantly, smiling.  
  
I really need to learn to watch what I say.  
  
But now that I’ve half-invited him it feels wrong not to go through with it. “Would you like to come over for lunch?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Walking beside him is strange, and not just because he’s a foot-and-a-half taller than me, nude, and not human. It’s odd because it feels intimate, like I’m with a friend. Not that I’d know much about that.  
  
When we get to the house he stops in the yard and seats himself at an old picnic table that I’d forgotten was even there. “Why not come inside?” I ask.  
  
He shakes his head. “Not inside, please.”  
  
“Is it the dogs?”  
  
“Dogs don’t like me.”  
  
“I’m sorry if Herman bothered you that night. He doesn’t know how to back down.”  
  
“Herman is okay. I bothered Herman. I bothered you?”  
  
“No. Maybe startled, at first. I’ve never met anyone like you before. Um…by the way, my name is Will. What’s your name?”  
  
“You name me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You give me my name.”  
  
He sighs. I’m not sure what it means. He clearly understands me, yet as I replay our conversations, it occurs to me that his vocabulary is limited to the specific words that I have spoken, including those from our first meeting. If this is true, then I would have to say his name in order for him to tell it to me. Feeling like I’m in a fairy-tale, I ask, “Is there a…rule or something about what you can and can’t say?”  
  
“What I can say is what you say.”  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Can I say individual letters and have you spell things out for me? Like a Ouija board…yes, no, A through Z, etcetera?”  
  
“I can’t spell.”  
  
My stomach growls loudly and he adds, “Will is hungry.”  
  
I laugh, dropping the idea of finding a loophole in whatever law of paranormal linguistics I’m up against. “I’ll go cook. Be back soon.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
I change out of my gear, gut the fish, and put all but the biggest one in the freezer. As I filet the large bass and season it for the frying pan, I try to come up with a nickname for the stag-man that isn’t cringe-worthy. Of course, everything that leaps to mind is ridiculous and/or inappropriate: Spiky, Mr. Sinews, Clawsby, Joe Silvers, Stagger Lee.  
  
Doe? That could be okay for now, as long as it doesn’t insult his manhood.  
  
I try not to think about his manhood.  
  
When the fish is done I make a salad to go with it, grab some flatware, an extra plate, a bottle of water, and a roll of paper towels. He’s sitting where I left him. He places a paper towel on his lap. I can’t help but smile.  
  
He uses the knife and fork in the continental style, which I take as an indication that he is in fact not a product of my mind, because I have never eaten that way. Additionally, his table manners are better than mine. I remind myself to chew with my mouth shut. He says, “I like it.”  
  
I swallow before answering. “That’s good. I wasn’t sure what you like to eat. Everything?”  
  
“Everything.”  
  
It begins to rain, softly at first. I ignore it for as long as I can, but soon heavy drops are falling and my clothes are getting soaked. The temperature has dropped significantly, and I’m genuinely chilled. He looks up at the darkening sky, then back at me. “Please go inside, Will. Cold for you.”  
  
His tone, firm yet caring, is irresistible. I stand up, and he also rises. I’m not sure what to say. “See you?” is what comes out.  
  
He leans toward me, moving very slowly, and tentatively kisses my cheek. His physical proximity is overwhelming, and I’m rooted to the spot. I feel heat flood my skin and I’m too shy to meet his eyes as he pulls away and says, “See you.”  
  
By the time I regain motor control, he’s gone. I’d like to know where. I want him to lead me there. I want there to be a next time.  
  
I take a hot bath to calm my nerves, soothed by the sound of rain against the roof, my mind replaying the details of what could be considered our first date.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The darkness is seamless, complete. It must be a moonless night.  
  
I remember getting into bed, but I’m not there now.  
  
The air is bitterly cold, needling my skin. I draw my shoulder blades together, pressing them into an unyielding surface.  
  
The picnic table? That’s where I woke up yesterday.  
  
The roof? I noticed my footprints there earlier in the week, on the morning of the first snow, when I ascended to the upper floor to gaze out at the silver sliver of the Chesapeake and found the window wide open.  
  
No, I can hear water. These are stones beneath me, jutting out from the riverbank. I prop up on my elbows and haul myself into sitting, ignoring the protest of my stiff muscles. As I force myself to stand, searing pain lances through my left lower leg, wresting a scream out of me. I collapse back to the ground and curl on my side as my existence narrows to a single point of agony.  
  
When my thinking mind eventually starts working again, I search the radius I can reach for a branch that could serve as a walking stick. After several futile minutes, I give up and begin to crawl, reassuring myself that I should probably be okay as long as I keep moving, despite the fact that I’m clad only in my underwear.  
  
Maybe I should start sleeping in pajamas, or a parka for that matter. It’s not as if wearing less has stopped me from sweating through the sheets, and it seems that my subconscious, driving my somnambulism, has no regard for my safety.  
  
I catch my foot on something and take another few minutes in the fetal position. The pain is nauseating, bone-deep.  
  
When I hear him say my name I almost burst into tears of relief. He lifts me effortlessly from the ground, holding me against the warmth of his chest with sinuous arms that belie his strength.  
  
As much as I’m grateful for his help, I feel so stupid and helpless at the moment that I can’t find my words, so I stay quiet while he carries me home. Though I know he’s wary of my dogs, he opens the door without hesitation and places me gently on the bed. The dogs are barking -snarling, growling- and I try to get them to quiet down, with mixed results. He turns on the lights and brings me the phone. Herman takes the opportunity to snap at his heel. I shout, “No! Bad dog!”  
  
The stag-man makes a conciliatory gesture and redirects my attention to the phone. I look down at my leg. The ankle is badly broken, the foot set at an unnatural angle. I sigh and dial 9-1-1 with trembling fingers.  
  
After I convince the dispatcher that I’m in no imminent danger and she tells me the ambulance is on the way, I hang up. “They’ll be here soon. Would you mind grabbing some clothes out of there, please?” I ask, pointing to the dresser.  
  
He selects a blue plaid flannel and a pair of loose well-worn jeans. I put the shirt on and allow him to help me with the bottoms; he threads my leg through, exceedingly careful not to jostle my ankle. After I’m dressed I’m finally able to say, “Thank you for everything. Unfortunately, I have another favor to ask. Would you please take care of my dogs while I’m gone? They just need to be let out every few hours, and there’s food in the kitchen cupboard under the sink.”  
  
“Yes, Will. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
“This is bad,” he says pensively, hovering a hand over my broken ankle, his tone more sympathetic than scolding.  
  
“I’ll be okay. _I’m_ sorry you had to see me like this.”  
  
He kneels on the floor. “Like what?”  
  
I laugh nervously, horribly self-conscious. “Such a mess.”  
  
His facial muscles scrunch up in confusion for a moment, then he shakes his head as if to dispel the thought. He reaches out with both hands and begins to smooth my hair, his palms lightly stroking my face. The tips of his claws just graze my scalp, sending waves of electric pleasure down my spine that summate in my sacrum. My renewed trembling has nothing to do with having been out in the cold. I’m frightened by how good it feels, and that I don’t care if he can hurt me.  
  
My hands reach out, mirroring his, and wend their way to the nape of his neck. I pull gently; he yields immediately. Our lips meet, hesitant and imploring, exploring the outskirts of so much undiscovered territory, and I’m falling into something I’m not ready for, falling deliciously. I almost whimper when he pulls away, as the ambulance lights shine through the windows. The front door opens as he leaves through the back and I smile blissfully as the paramedics stare down at me.  
  
They offer me painkillers on the way to the hospital but I’ve gone numb in the best possible way.


	3. Chapter 3

I wake expecting to see him watching over me. Irrational, I know, but in my medicated haze I look around for him anyway.  
  
“How are you feeling, Mr. Graham?” asks a nurse.  
  
My vision swims a little. “Have you seen-” I begin, then catch myself, realizing that the end of that sentence is _a guy with antlers_ and that I want to go home, not get myself committed to the psych ward. “Um…have you seen…my clothes?”  
  
“You’re in the recovery room, Mr. Graham. Your surgery went well. Soon you’ll move to a regular room and you’ll get your clothes back.”  
  
Her voice is kind and her smile genuine. I wonder for a moment if I should tell her about my friend, after all. If I’m indeed descending into madness, at least I’d be able to say that I attempted to self-rescue.  
  
I remain quiet. As promised, I’m soon wheeled into another room. Once I’ve demonstrated that I can safely use crutches and that I understand the signs and symptoms of certain complications to watch out for, they discharge me in the afternoon and I call a cab.  
  
The cab driver is thoughtful enough to take the initiative to pull all the way up to my house so I don’t have far to walk.  
  
The dogs greet me, sniff and lick the cast, then rush past me out the door.  
  
I announce for anyone in the house to hear, just in case, “I’m home.”  
  
Silence.  
  
The drugs have worn off and my leg is aching fiercely, as bad if not worse than it felt in the forest. They told me to bear weight as tolerated, but right now I can’t stand to touch my toes to the floor. I make my way to the sink and take two of the painkillers I was prescribed.  
  
In the center of the kitchen table I find two small twigs arranged to look like antlers. I smile and leave them be, as if disturbing them would break a beautiful spell.  
  
I brush my teeth while the bathtub fills up. I carefully lower myself into the water, leaving my left leg dangling over the edge. I wash quickly but thoroughly, then struggle out of the tub and into clean clothes, cursing profusely as I wait for the pills to take effect.  
  
I call the dogs inside, then get into bed. The opiates finally hit my bloodstream and I close my eyes, sighing with relief.  
  
I awake to a soft knock on the door. It’s dark and I didn’t put the porch light on, but I’m pretty sure I know who it is. “Come in.”  
  
His footsteps are quiet, considering that the big and second toes are broad and furnished with smooth pointed nails like a deer’s hooves.  
  
I turn on the light next to the bed. He kneels down, smiling, and says, “Hi.”  
  
“Hi.”  
  
He gestures at my leg. “How is it?”  
  
I must have been asleep for a few hours, because it’s hurting again. I force a smile. “Both bones were broken. They had to do what’s called an open reduction internal fixation. Plates and screws. I’ll live.”  
  
“I can see that you don’t feel good. Anything I can do?”  
  
I’m not sure why I’m trying to put on a brave face. He’s already seen me writhing in pain in my underwear. “Would you please bring me the bottle of pills on the counter?”  
  
He does so, along with a glass of water, and I take two of the tablets. He asks, “Are you hungry?”  
  
I haven’t eaten since dinner last night, but at the moment I feel nauseated. Not knowing what to say, I shrug. He replies, “I’ll cook?”  
  
Phrased as a question, it’s a polite offer that gauges whether I want him to hang around or not. Despite my pathetic state, I do. I _really_ do. I still kind of can’t believe he’s here in the first place. “We can make dinner together. Oh.”  
  
He tilts his head. A flush spreads across my face as I continue, “There isn’t much to make a meal with here. Frozen fish, a chicken.”  
  
“The chicken is good. I have food. Be back soon.”  
  
The medication kicks in while he’s gone, and I drift off again. I awake to a delicious aroma, and open my eyes to see him in the kitchen, tending to a soup pot. “Hey, sorry I didn’t hear you. I, um…couldn’t sleep at the hospital.”  
  
He turns toward me and shakes his head, smiling. “Please, Will. Sleep.”  
  
“But, I wanted to help.”  
  
“We can make dinner at my home, soon.”  
  
I’m beyond reassured to hear that he wants to see me again, that my temporary neediness isn’t a total turn-off. “I’d like that.”  
  
I get out of bed and seat myself at the kitchen table with my leg resting on the other chair. He’s facing the counter, turned three-quarters away from me, and I gaze at his body, his visible ribs and vertebrae, the sharp ridges of his hips. Though I find him attractive, he is extremely lean. He can clearly procure protein for himself, as demonstrated by his ease with fishing. Is he merely subsisting, the way I do, or is he naturally ectomorphic? It feels rude to ask, especially since I’ll be eating his food. But what if he needs that food to get through the winter?  
  
I remind myself that he’s a grown-ass stag-man and can take care of himself. Just like I’m a grown-ass man and can take care of myself.  
  
Right.  
  
I watch him remove the chicken bones from the soup. A few dogs gather and start to whine. He shushes them and they quiet down immediately.  
  
I wonder how many kitchens he’s been in before. I’m too stoned to be jealous; the narcotics make me feel like I’m underwater, and I find myself nodding off. He squeezes my shoulder and points to the bed. I shake my heavy head. “ _Mmm-nnn_ , I’ll definitely fall asleep.”  
  
“That’s okay.”  
  
I guess I was stubbornly trying to treat this as a dinner date, but judging from his concerned expression, my well-being is his priority. “I don’t want to abuse your kindness.”  
  
He chuckles. “Please do.”  
  
“Why? I mean…why are you helping me?”  
  
He pauses for a moment. “I startled you, at first. But you treat me like something that’s good. Your mind is open. Individual. I would like to know you.”  
  
My heart begins to race. I tell myself to stay calm. “I’d like to know you, too.”  
  
I’m pondering what he meant, exactly, by _like something that’s good_ , when the oven timer beeps. He serves dinner. I take my leg off his chair so he can sit down. He surprises me by lifting my foot back up and casually resting it on his thigh. We’re seated diagonally to each other, and it feels…cozy.  
  
I rediscover my appetite. The chicken is delightfully tender, the root vegetables yield perfectly to the teeth, and the broth is rich and flavorful. “This is the best soup I’ve ever had, no hyperbole.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
My curiosity is piqued, as I can’t picture him at a grocery store. “Where’d you get the ingredients?”  
  
“My home.”  
  
So, he lives within walking -running?- distance. Unless he’s capable of some form of esoteric astral travel. Or drives a convertible, to accommodate his antlers. “You have a vegetable garden?”  
  
He nods. “You will see.”  
  
We savor the rest of our meal in companionable silence. After I drain my bowl of the last droplets of golden elixir, I abandon any intention of remaining conscious. I crawl back into bed and prop my foot up on a pillow, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”  
  
He shushes me exactly like he corrected the whining dogs, and I have to laugh. Maybe it’s the opiates talking, but I hear myself ask, “Wanna lie down, too? I’ll be boring company, but you can put the TV on or whatever. No worries if you can’t stay.”  
  
“I’ll stay.”  
  
He sits down gracefully on the other side of the bed. He looks a bit hesitant, and I wonder if he’s anywhere near as shy as I am.  
  
I promptly realize that he requires a bed that’s pulled away from the wall, to make room for the antlers. I sluggishly shift my position so we can lie side by side diagonally across the mattress. He stretches out next to me and pulls the blanket over us both. The heat of his body is inviting, and I slide closer. He takes my hand and kisses me softly on the cheek. I want to reciprocate but I’m sinking, deeper and deeper, into a dream.  
  
I slowly descend a spiral staircase made of stone. The light is dim, warm, amber. I reach a point beyond which there are no more steps. Beneath me is profound blackness…emptier than night…a void.

I glance behind me; the staircase is as still as a tomb.  
  
A hand reaches up from the darkness.  
  
I take it and step off the edge, trusting that he’ll catch me as I fall.


	4. Chapter 4

  
I take a step off the edge and fall.  
  
My hand slips out of a grasp I thought would hold me.  
  
It feels like a long time until I touch the ground.  
  
In slow motion, the pressure increases.  
  
I can feel the bones of my leg bending to their limits.  
  
I feel them snap-  
  
I sit up, gasping. It’s morning, and he’s crouched in front of the fireplace set into the wall opposite the bed, holding either end of a stick that’s broken in the middle. He’s looking at me, expression stricken as he says, “Sorry.”  
  
He’s clearly apologizing for waking me by snapping branches for kindling, but it feels connected with the dream and I need a moment to shake off an unexpected feeling of paranoia.  
  
I remind myself that people -and their actions- within dreams are only a reflection of the dreamer. He didn’t betray my trust. I have trust issues. That’s what it means.  
  
Plus, my leg feels like it’s going to explode. I take my medication, then say, “Don’t apologize. It’d be nice to have a fire.”  
  
His expression brightens and he returns to his task. The fire is soon crackling and the dogs gather around the hearth, luxuriating in the heat.  
  
I get up and use the bathroom, brush my teeth. Startled by my reflection, I attempt to tame my hair. I feel embarrassed by his attention. I feel like a disappointment waiting to happen or currently in progress.  
  
I make my way to the fireplace and find him petting Herman. Hard to believe that Herman tried to take a bite out of him less than 48 hours ago.  
  
I’m thinking about sitting down beside him, or possibly on his lap, when he rises to his feet and says, “See you soon. If you need help…”  
  
“…I’ll scream.”  
  
We share a laugh. I drop the crutches and pull him into a tight hug. I want to kiss him, but my face only reaches his sternum. I tilt my head back and meet his unusual eyes, and taking the cue, he leans down. The kiss starts off gentle, but deepens as it lengthens, becoming more and more passionate. Time slows and I have no sense of anything except the exquisite places where we’re in contact. He grinds his hips ever so slightly into mine, and that subtle motion is enough to make me lightheaded. I break the kiss, gasping involuntarily. He lets me catch my breath, then kisses my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and both eyelids. He hands me the crutches and says, “Take care, Will.”  
  
I can only nod.  
  
Once he’s gone, I realize that I have no idea when our dinner date at his place is supposed to be. I also realize that I’m extremely turned on.  
  
I need a distraction.  
  
I spend the day working on an outboard motor that the client left in storage for several years. There are lots of problems both small and large for me to tend to and I immerse myself in the details, working all day and well into the evening. I reheat leftover soup for dinner -he made a lot, thoughtfully- and discover that carrying a bowl while on crutches is truly a puzzle.  
  
The hour grows later than I mean it to. I come to the realization that I’m trying to stay up. Waiting for him. Annoyed with myself, I get into bed, taking a different pill the doctor gave me to manage my sleepwalking. I recall the suspicious way she looked at me when I told her I had no idea how I broke my leg, that I’d been sleepwalking since childhood on and off, and that I only had a little whisky before bed most nights. I think she concluded that I’m a degenerate of one sort or another based on my twitchy manner, the dark circles beneath my eyes, my skin streaked with mud from the riverbank, and my ‘haircut.’ I readily agreed to undergo a sleep study as soon as I’ve recovered enough, and she didn’t probe too deeply with her questions.  
  
I awake to a bright morning, the phone ringing on the nightstand. I’m uncomfortable speaking on the phone but it’s necessary for my business, so I force myself to answer. It’s the owner of the outboard motor; he wants to know if I can have it ready for the weekend. I say yes even though I have no idea what day it is.  
  
Turns out I have three days, which is more time than I need. I pace my tasks carefully, trying not to exhaust myself, and medicate at regular intervals. Each evening, I let myself think about the stag-man as I drift into a hypnotic-narcotic stupor.  
  
The client arrives on Friday evening to get the motor. He’s a big guy, powerfully built, with sandy-colored hair tucked into a baseball hat. He looks me up and down with generalized disdain. I’ve attempted to be nothing but professional in my work, but I suppose my reputation as a recluse precedes me.  
  
He uses my engine hoist to load the motor into the bed of his pickup truck and hands me a wad of cash, thanking me gruffly. I count the money. It’s much less than what we agreed on. I feel the need to say something. “This is just for the basic service.”  
  
“Yeah, two hundred.”  
  
“Right, that was for basic service. The motor needed more than that. Parts and labor, it’s another three hundred.”  
  
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”  
  
“No…we…went over this when you dropped it off. You told me to go ahead with whatever was needed.”  
  
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”  
  
I can tell he’s lying. “I have the receipts from the parts-”  
  
“Look, you got your money. I got my motor.”  
  
“But-”  
  
He takes a step towards me and points into my face. “You got your money.”  
  
“You expect me to just eat the cost-”  
  
“Yeah. Eat it.”  
  
Intense humiliation sweeps over me and I’m sure my face is turning red. I’m reminded of certain moments on various playgrounds throughout my youth. I never knew what to do then and I guess I still don’t. As if sensing my weakness, he laughs, taunting, “What are you gonna do about it? I’ll tell you what. Nothing.”  
  
“Get off my property or I’ll call the cops.”  
  
He continues to laugh. “The _cops_? No, you don’t want to do that. You don’t want to fuck with me. It’s not like anyone would miss you.”  
  
I’m surprised by his threat. This has rapidly become a _back-away-slowly_ situation. I quietly say, “You’re right.”  
  
That seems to disarm him. He makes a horrible sniffling noise. “We good? No trouble?”  
  
“No trouble.”  
  
He smirks and spits on the ground, then gets into his truck and drives away. I go inside the house and lock the door. I’m sweating and shaking. What else is new?  
  
I wash my pills down with some whisky and stare in the direction of the television until I pass out.  
  
There’s an envelope on the porch railing the next morning, containing three hundred dollars. I didn’t hear a car pull up and the dogs usually bark when an unfamiliar person comes by, but then again, I was sedated. I chalk it up to a change of heart or crisis of conscience, unexpected as that might be. I put the money in my wallet, feeling slightly better about what happened.  
  
I’m officially out of food, so I try my luck at driving. I make it to the supermarket without incident and buy canned stuff, fruit, and vegetables. I also grab some frozen salmon filets, because it doesn’t seem like I’ll be fishing anytime soon.  
  
I tie flies for the rest of the day, time not flying like it usually does. As the sun begins to set I let the dogs out and decide to make my way around the yard for exercise. I do a lap, arriving at the picnic table, where I sit down and begin to pitch snowballs to the larger dogs. Soon there’s only a small patch of snow left on the tabletop. I form it into a tiny snowman, then add a couple of twigs for antlers.  
  
A snowball hits me in the back. I whip my head around. The stag-man is pretending to hide behind a sapling. I fling a snowball at him; it connects with his face. I worry that I’ve blundered, until he lets out a joyful laugh. The sound rattles around in my ribcage. He puts his hands up, signaling a truce, and comes over to the table. The dogs run toward us, greeting him with wagging tails. He pets the ones that vie for his attention. I patiently wait my turn.  
  
He catches sight of the snowman and does a double-take, crouching down to get a closer look. He smiles delightedly, kneels in front of me, and kisses me without hesitation. I catch his upper lip between mine and gently bite it. He responds in turn, biting my bottom lip with extreme caution. He runs his hands down my sides until they come to rest at my hips. I press my torso against his and his grip around my pelvis tightens, the pressure as reassuring as it is arousing. The kiss evolves. The action of his tongue against mine feels torturously good and I want it -want him- to touch me everywhere. My clothing is suddenly constrictive, like a skin I’m ready to shed. I unzip my coat and I’m fumbling at the top button of my shirt when he pulls away.  
  
He sits back on his heels, breath pluming in the cold air. “Come over for dinner? That is, if you feel good.”  
  
“I feel good.”  
  
Perhaps I said it too quickly, but I think my eagerness was already rather evident. He smiles widely, teeth gleaming in the dying light. I grab my crutches and stand up. He says, “Let me take your dogs inside, okay?”  
  
“Thanks. Um, should I bring anything to your place?”  
  
“Treat.”  
  
At first I think he’s calling to the dogs, but then I realize he’s answering me. He sighs, which I’ve come to recognize as his way of signaling that he doesn’t have the necessary words.  “You want me to bring dessert?”  
  
“Ingredients for dessert. Treat,” he repeats, this time holding out a cupped hand.  
  
“An apple?”  
  
“Yes. A few, if you have, please. And…etcetera.”  
  
“Yeah, take what you need.”  
  
He places two claws into his mouth and whistles sharply. The dogs come running, following him into the house. As I watch the graceful movements of his silhouette, I idly wonder what I’m getting myself into. I’m still apprehensive, but excitement and curiosity have taken the reins.  
  
He returns to me and puts a wool hat on my head. He also zips up my coat. The action is a bit paternalistic, but I find it charming. He kneels down again and gestures at his shoulders. After a moment of confusion, it dawns on me that he wants me to climb on. My immediate impulse is to refuse, but when I consider the difficulty of navigating through the woods in my current state, I see the sense in his offer.  
  
He helps me up, then hooks the crutches onto the prongs of one of his antlers and a plastic grocery bag on the other. I laugh as I picture what we must look like. He laughs, too, as he comes to standing.  
  
I find it thrilling to be so high off the ground. My feeling of awkwardness fades quickly as I enjoy the ride. I hold on to his antlers, feeling strangely powerful. His gait is smooth and relatively slow, for my benefit I believe. When we get to the creek he wades across a shallow area and continues on for a distance of about half a mile, until we arrive at a huge slab of rock set vertically in the ground, left there by a glacier at the end of the last ice age. He steps around the edge and I see that he has used the slab as a supporting wall, building a structure against it with smaller stones and logs. I didn’t assume that he was in any way unsophisticated, but I’m astonished by the evident skill involved in the construction.  
  
He assists me down and opens the door. I enter a perfect little cabin, complete with a stone hearth, a small table, two chairs upholstered in deer hide, and a wooden bed with what appears to be a blanket made from coyote fur. Light is provided by candles resting in alcoves in the walls. There is a small kitchen area that includes a basin, a pitcher of water, a butcher’s knife, and jars of herbs and spices. There are glowing embers in the hearth. “This is beautiful.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He’s holding out his hand to take my coat. I remove it and shove my hat into the sleeve, glancing down at my clothes. I feel overdressed -or somehow underdressed- compared to him, but the courage required to strip has left me. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the chairs near the fire.  
  
I sit, noticing that my chair is made of freshly-felled wood, while the other one has a more lived-in look. He moves a pile of kindling off a tree stump he apparently uses as a chopping block and slides it close enough for me to elevate my leg if I need to. He stokes the fire, then retrieves a red leather suitcase from the corner. To my amazement, he opens it to reveal an antique gramophone. He looks at me questioningly. I nod enthusiastically.  
  
He winds it up and puts on a record. Soft classical music fills the room. He retrieves two bottles from the kitchen and displays them like a sommelier at a fine restaurant. One is whiskey, the other is wine. I surmise he's smelled the former on me. “Care for some?”  
  
“The wine, please.”  
  
He pours two glasses, seats himself, and lifts his glass. The silence stretches until I ask, “You want me to make a toast?”  
  
He shrugs. I continue, “To…you.”  
  
We clink glasses. I watch him inhale the scent of the wine. I wait until he takes a sip before I taste it. I don’t know much about wine, but in my opinion it’s damn good.  
  
He serves a plate of dark-colored crackers topped with fresh tomato salad. “Is this made with acorn flour?” I ask.  
  
He blinks and straightens his posture a bit, seemingly impressed that I could identify the flavor. I add, “Does that surprise you? I’ve done my share of foraging in these woods.”  
  
“Nice surprise.”  
  
“In the spring I’ll show you where to look for morels.”  
  
It’s out of my mouth before I think it through. With a few seconds of hindsight, the statement strikes me as highly presumptuous. I’m scared to look at him, but when I do, his expression is so blissed-out that I see my worries are unfounded. Maybe all of them are, if I could just relax.  
  
After the appetizer, we get to work on dinner. He has me chop vegetables while he handles a large cut of meat, browning it in a cast-iron skillet over the flames before slicing it into bite-sized cubes. We put the ingredients, including dried mushrooms -the species of which I name much to his amusement, into a round-bellied iron pot that looks exactly like a cauldron. He adds water and spices and sets the pot on a hook over the fire.  
  
He pours me another glass of wine as the stew simmers. I want to ask about the origin of certain items in his home, but I don’t want to call him out on being a thief, if that’s indeed how he acquired these possessions. My curiosity is overshadowed by the desire to neither rob him of his dignity nor his mystery.  
  
We peel the apples together, and he sheepishly reveals that he borrowed some white flour, butter, and sugar along with the fruit. So, that was the ‘etcetera.’ We make a pastry crust, which he rolls out and places in the cast-iron pan, then we fill it with apple slices. He brings me a wet cloth to clean my hands. The room is full of delicious aromas, and my mouth is watering.  
  
I didn’t have any expectations about what this would be like, but it strikes me as almost mainstream in its appeal, excluding the host, of course. Candles, wine, music, the promise of a delicious meal and the anticipation of what will happen afterwards…all of the ambiance and pleasure of a romantic evening. Did he do this because he thought it’s what I’d like? Because it’s what human beings like, in general? Or maybe, despite roving naked through the woods, he enjoys these creature comforts?  
  
Whatever the explanation, the intention is clear. I’ve been invited to a seduction. I’m game. I was game back at the picnic table.  
  
Though I thoroughly appreciate his efforts, I know it would have been easier for me outside, lying in the snow, with less pressure to behave as a person. Maybe that can be our next encounter, a seduction of my design, if this time goes okay. If I underestimated his domesticity, perhaps he underestimates my wildness.  
  
Whether by candle-light or moonlight, I’m committed to enjoying his company and overcoming my various forms of shyness in order to do so. I decide to pretend to be more confident than I am, in accordance with the time-honored principle of _fake it ’til you make it_. I savor my wine as slowly as possible, watching him as he tends the pot and monitors the dessert perched inside a small oven above the hearth. Despite being so angular, he has a nice round ass.  
  
He catches me staring. I make strong eye contact and hold his gaze...hold it long enough that he knows he's wanted. For once, he looks away first, but only for a moment. I can see the pulse at his throat increase. He slowly lies down in front of the fire, body on display, apparently as willing to tease me as I am to tease him.  
  
Neither of us move for at least thirty minutes. I didn’t know that a complete lack of action could be so sexy. He eventually has to remove the dessert from the oven or risk burning it. He sets it aside to cool and serves the main course. The flavor of the stew is rich and succulent, and I achieve a full understanding of what is meant by _wine pairing_ as I sip my third glass. “It’s so good,” I say between bites.  
  
He smiles, pleased. After the stew has been devoured, he brings the apple tart to the table and cuts us each a slice. The crust is golden, flaky, and just savory enough to offset the sweetness of the fruit. It takes concerted effort not to scrape the plate with my fork in order to gather the crumbs that remain.  
  
Once the dishes are cleared away he fixes me with a blatantly hungry expression. If we hadn’t just eaten dessert, I might think I was on the menu. It would be just like a fairy-tale monster to lure me to his cottage to eat me. I smile and say very slowly, fully enjoying myself now, buoyed by the wine and the success of my flirtation, “I’d really like…if you’re ready to, that is…”  
  
He’s hanging on my words. I feel a bit cruel as I finish, “…show me your garden?”  
  
There’s a pause, and then a deep laugh that I feel inside my stomach, hot tingling pleasure rolling in a slow somersault, and I almost blurt out _on second thought, I'd prefer a tour of the bed_ , but he’s already leading me out the door, holding a candle to light the way.  
  
I follow him beyond the end of the house, where he points to a raised bed in an area cleared of trees. It’s blanketed in snow, obscuring any signs of life. I’m confused, until he pulls open a trapdoor in the ground and holds the candle inside it to reveal a space containing several wooden crates. “A root cellar. You grow your own produce and store it for the winter.”  
  
I can’t see to the end of the cellar without descending the stairs, and I’m not about to attempt that now, but I take a guess that there’s also room for meat to be stored. I look up at him. “You’re incredible.”  
  
He shrugs. Past his shoulder I catch sight of another small structure nearby along a path. “Um…is that a bathroom, by any chance?”  
  
He nods. I really have to pee. He returns to the cottage, giving me privacy.  
  
It’s more elegant than your average outhouse. The interior is lit by a candle like the ones in the cabin. I dip a finger in the melted pool and feel that it’s tallow, no doubt home-made. I relieve myself in the latrine and wash my hands with a bar of soap -likely made from rendered fat- in a basin of water. It’s warm; I see there’s another candle underneath. The amount of care he’s taken to make me comfortable is touching.  
  
When I get back to the cottage I find him sitting in his chair by the fire, lightly gripping the armrests. He looks a bit tense, but smiles mildly at me. Instead of joining him, I sit on the edge of the bed and slowly unbutton my shirt, watching him watching me. I take it off and drop it to the floor. “Come here, please,” I say.  
  
He doesn’t exactly leap out of the chair, but crosses the room with startling speed and assumes his usual kneeling position in front of me. I let my knees drift apart, inviting him closer. He accepts, encircling me in his arms. The skin of his chest and stomach feels glorious pressed against mine, like being bathed in sunlight. He pauses, somehow understanding without me having to explain that I need time to get used to each new sensation. I can’t believe my luck. I was dreading having a conversation about my sensitivity. Even the word _sensitivity_ makes me cringe.  
  
I grab onto his antlers and maneuver him into a kiss. He doesn’t resist in the slightest, and just as I had during our walk -my ride- here, I experience a rush of power. We kiss with alternating fervor and languor, until I wrap my legs around his narrow waist and pull myself onto his lap. I guide his mouth to my throat and he kisses me there, then runs his lips over my collarbones, tracing them from one shoulder to the other. He encounters a scar, which he explores with the tip of his tongue. The scar itself is insensate, but the skin around it erupts in gooseflesh as I vividly recall my dream of being licked from head to toe. I instantly begin to tremble, and I know that sweat isn’t far behind. He pauses again, searching my eyes this time. I say, “It’s…not the scar. That’s from an old rotator cuff surgery. Nothing emotionally traumatic.”  
  
Was that strictly true? I’d hurt my shoulder years ago during a stint as a marina dock worker, when a heavy box I was carrying on my shoulder slipped backwards. The other workers had a name for me there: Weird Will. Very creative. Well, weirdness hadn’t deterred one of those stoic masculine men from making a pass at me one evening after everyone else had left. We sat on the dock and shared a six-pack, followed by some furtive frottage in a borrowed boat, and I’d been dumb enough to imagine it meant something. The next day, he wouldn’t look me in the eye -wouldn’t acknowledge my existence at all- and in my distracted state I lost my balance with the box and that, as they say, was that. I never went back.  
  
“Will?”  
  
Okay, so the memory was bad, but not entirely so. I learned something.  
  
“Will?”  
   
I blink, coming back to the current moment. I’m sitting on his lap on the floor. “The bed,” I say.  
  
He lifts me and places me on the bed, studying my expression. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Do you have anything slippery?”  
  
He goes to the kitchen and returns with a small bottle of oil. I unbutton my jeans and pull them off along with my underwear. The clothes get hung up around the cast, and he helps me. He sits on the bed and I slide onto his lap facing him, as before. Another pause; our breathing syncs. I tell him, “I like being licked.”  
  
He picks up where he left off, at the scar, and proceeds to trace the outline of every muscle and bony landmark of my upper chest, like he’s constructing a mental map of my topography. When he can’t reach down any further he gently coaxes me to lie back without breaking the contact between our stiffening cocks. I close my eyes and focus on the tingling coolness his tongue leaves in its wake as it travels in a labyrinthine path over my ribcage. Tension is building within me in waves that threaten to overwhelm. Every time I feel like I can’t take any more stimulation, I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and let it out slowly. He swiftly catches on to this and pauses in time with my breathing.  
  
I gradually realize that he won’t stop until I tell him to. I sit up and find the oil, pouring some into my palm. I take a moment to simply admire him in his full glory. Though I’m harder than I’ve ever been I'm still firmly within the category of _average_ , while he’s blessed with a piece of equipment that I can only describe as nearly prohibitive in size. I begin to stroke us both, smiling as he curls his hand around mine. He brings our foreheads together and then our lips, diverting my attention. It seems that I can only move my hand or my mouth; accomplishing both simultaneously is beyond me. We trade off between kissing and jerking until I’m panting and shaking, useless for either. “Don’t stop,” I say.  
  
He doesn’t, and my hips buck uncontrollably as I come. To keep from crying out, I bite the meat of his shoulder. He makes a muted noise of undeniable ecstasy and I feel his body shudder against mine.  
  
Drawing in deep breaths, he holds me close, face buried in my hair, then begins to rock me so gently that I can barely perceive the motion as separate from his breathing. Sensing that it’s a self-soothing behavior, I relax in his embrace for as long as he needs, feeling profoundly content.  
      
When he finally releases me, he lays me down flat and leaves for a minute, returning with a warm basin of water and a piece of cloth. He proceeds to clean me with such tender care that I simply let him proceed, perceiving that this encounter possibly means even more to him than it does to me.  
  
He eventually sets the basin aside, and quietly says, “No worries, if you can’t stay. I don’t have a TV, sorry.”  
  
I laugh so hard my face hurts. “I’ll stay.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
My shyness creeps back. I wrap myself in the fur blanket. He puts another record on, and keeps his distance until I gesture for him to join me. He gets under the blanket beside me and takes my hand, then kisses my cheek just like he did the last time he was at my house.  
  
I remind myself not to be swept overboard by how close I already feel to him. There’s so much I don’t know. “Have you lived here long?”  
  
He props up on an elbow and shrugs. I realize it’s a pretty vague question, so I rephrase it. “Less than a year?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
I’m glad to hear that. I don’t often venture beyond my side of the creek, but early in the spring I visited the large slab of rock and there was definitely no cottage here at that time. “Do you have family?”  
  
He shakes his head. “Long gone.”  
  
“Oh…I hope nothing bad happened.”  
  
“Unfortunately. Do you have family?”  
  
“Some distant cousins. No siblings. My dad brought me up by himself. He died eight years ago. Cancer.”  
  
I don’t want to assume, but I can imagine that if his relations resembled him they may have met with a violent end at the hands of human beings. I ask, “Was it an illness that took your family?”  
  
“My dad and…”  
  
I give him the words, “Mother, father, sister, brother.”  
  
“My mother and father died of an illness long ago, when I was…”  
  
“A child?”  
  
He nods. “My sister died, too, as a child. Not from an illness.”  
  
He nods again, this time as a gesture of encouragement, giving me permission to put a name to what happened. “She was killed. Not by accident?”  
  
“No, not by accident.”  
  
My heart aches as my imagination -unbidden and unstoppable- fills in graphic details. “By a person…or people like me?”  
  
“Like you in what way?”  
  
“Without antlers.”  
  
His gaze snaps to the space above my head and he puts on an exaggerated expression of surprise. “You don’t have antlers?”  
  
“I wish I did.”  
  
His look of surprise shifts, now entirely genuine. “Really?”  
  
How do I tell him that he resembles me more than my own reflection? “I don’t like being human.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Humans are supposed to be social creatures.”  
  
“Supposed to… _hmmmm_.”  
  
The _hmmmm_ is a growl, low in his throat. It sends a tremor through me. “If you’re not, people think you’ve got a mental disorder.”  
  
“Do you think you’ve got a disorder?”  
  
“I’ve avoided diagnosis so far.”  
  
He smiles. “Me, too.”  
  
I wonder if he was aware of me before the evening I became aware of him. If he was driven by a similar longing to form a connection. If he’s a natural loner or if the loss of his family forced him into isolation. He says, “Dogs are social creatures.”  
  
I smile. “I guess they’re my surrogate family. Speaking of, I should go home to let them out.”  
  
“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go?”  
  
“Oh, I can’t ask you to do that.”  
  
“It’s nothing, really.”  
  
Though I’m trying to ignore the pain, the wine’s numbing effect on my leg has worn off. I’m reluctant to move. “Okay, but you’ve got a lot of favors coming your way, Twigs.”  
  
He raises his eyebrows, or rather, the part of his face where eyebrows would be if he had any hair, and chuckles. I feel my face flush, and hurriedly add, “I liked your calling card. Knowing that you’d been there. Um…would you mind bringing my medication back with you?”  
  
He smirks impishly and retrieves the bottle of pills from the grocery bag.  
  
Damn, he’s good.  
  
He brings me water, kisses me, and hurries out the door, obviously happy that I’m spending the night.  
  
I try to stay awake in his absence, but the narcotics pull me under. I wake in the morning, curled against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. Up close, his skin is not simply grey, but a pearly mix of subtle shades of blue, green, and purple, like the color of a storm cloud. I lie still and listen to his heart. His arms are around me and I feel so comfortable and happy that I don’t want the moment to end.  
  
The fire has long died, but his body is generating lots of heat, and it’s toasty under the fur blanket. He shifts slightly and sandwiches my good foot between his own. The appendages that I think of as his hooves feel like polished river stones pressing into my sole. I wiggle my toes and he squeezes harder. I nuzzle into his neck and lightly kiss him there. He brings our mouths together. Self-conscious, I turn my face away. “Do I smell?”  
  
“Not bad. Do I?”  
  
There’s a faint aroma of something predatory, but I think it’s coming from the coyote pelt. I smell woodsmoke and pine and a hint of baked apple, but Twigs has no discernible scent of his own. “Not that I can detect.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
He holds my face between his palms and gently rubs his lips over mine. I’m only somewhat reassured by his claim that my morning breath is _not bad_ , and can’t abandon myself to the kiss. Sensing my hesitance, he kisses my forehead, then gets out of bed.  
  
It takes me a while to dress myself and perform my ablutions in the outhouse, and in the meantime he makes a light breakfast for us from last night’s dessert, along with some herbal tea. I know it amuses him when I identify ingredients, so I give it a try. “Lemon balm?”  
  
He grins. “I like you.”  
  
We leave the cabin and I get up on his shoulders again. The trip through the woods during daylight feels different; I’m much less nervous now. The snow is sparkling, innocent. A stable sensation of joy has settled around my heart.  
  
The dogs bark as we approach my house, and fly out to greet us when I open the door. As always, I’m grateful for them, and in this particular circumstance they’ve provided me with a buffer against an unfamiliar impulse to impose myself. This is the longest I’ve spent in another person’s company in years, and yet I don’t feel the typical intense need to escape back into solitude. I wouldn’t mind inviting him in, spending the day with him, but I’m pretty sure that dates are supposed to end.  
  
He’s standing at the bottom of the porch stairs, looking up at me at the top. I hop down until we’re at eye level and say, “Thank you, I had a wonderful time. Would you like to come here for dinner on Saturday, if you’re free?”  
  
“I’m free. Can I bring anything?”  
  
“The record player, please. If it’s not too delicate.”  
  
“You got it.”  
  
We kiss goodbye chastely and he walks away, Herman trailing him. I’m about to call my dog back when Twigs stoops and grabs up a snowball. He pitches it far across the lawn. I watch Herman bound after it. When I glance back, the dark figure is gone.  
  
This isn’t a competition, but I want to impress him. I get started right away.  
  
A few years ago, I collected all the large stones I could find on my property and constructed a short wall along the driveway. I decide to borrow some for my current project, using a garbage can lid with a rope attached as a makeshift sled to haul the stones toward my selected site just behind the house, by the woodpile. It’s slow going, which is good. Months and years used to bleed together. Now a week suddenly seems like a long time.  
  
I lay the stones out, then select the flattest ones and form them into a ring about three feet in diameter, fitting them together the best I can. It’s well into the afternoon by the time the first layer of the fire pit is complete, and I’m shaking with fatigue and hunger. I bring the dogs inside, feed them and myself, and decide to lie down for a short rest, which turns into a six-hour nap.  
  
It’s dark when I come to, heart pounding. I sweep my hands around to confirm that I’m in my bed, and turn on the lamp in the hopes of dispelling the image of the small mutilated body of a girl lying in the dead leaves on the forest floor, her vacant eyes staring. I’m crouched above her, a hunting knife in my hand, slick and hot with her blood. She’s beautiful, her grey skin like silk in the sunlight. I reach my finger into the raw cut between two of her ribs, trying to feel if her heart’s still beating. I’m sweating. Ecstatic. Excited.  
  
I struggle to take a breath; it comes in in short choppy waves, like I’m steering my boat into a strong headwind. Then there’s a sea change, and I’m Will again. I’m in control. I’m a good sailor. The waves calm, the sail unfurls, I get a deep breath in and hold it. Hold it until my body relaxes. Then exhale slowly.  
  
It takes several rounds of this breathing technique before I can appreciate that some of my dogs have gathered around me. I invite them up onto the bed and turn on the TV, selecting something soothing and mindless.  
  
Maybe it was foolish to think that this, being so much like a fairy-tale, would be spared the sickening reality of living with whatever the fuck's wrong with me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, as usual, for the delay between chapters. Thanks for reading. Comments mean a lot to me, if you have something to say please don't hold back. Love, KFC

Daydreams fill my waking hours.  
  
Fantasy can be folly, the inadvisable self-indulgence of an introvert cannibalizing his own mind to generate content. I can't seem to stop, so I give up trying.  
  
While my mind plays with itself, I build the ring of rocks and make other preparations for our date. I wish there was a better word for it, but _date_ is what keeps coming to mind. It’s not inaccurate, but it does have the power to give me serious jitters. _Appointment_ is too clinical. _Rendezvous_ strikes me as pretentious. I've used _encounter_ before and it still appeals to me, but holds the danger of being too singular, too fateful; an admission of falling too fast into love, if not at first sight. I’m wary of infatuation, as euphoric as it feels. I could disappear completely.  
  
For now, I’m still here. To prove it, I cross off of the days on the calendar that hangs on my kitchen wall. Saturday is a blank rectangle that my mind eagerly fills in.  
  
Sometimes I pretend that he doesn’t exist, so I can focus enough to fulfill my responsibilities; work on boats, tend to the dogs. My dogs keep me to a regular schedule and give me something to talk to besides myself. Brushing, petting, bathing, playing, feeding…cleaning up endless tumbleweeds of fur…all of these tactile activities help anchor me. I do believe my pack likes me, beyond the food and shelter I provide for them. Their energy, happy eyes, wagging tails, whining, licking, and plaintive paws…toys thrust into my lap and wet noses nuzzled into my palms…their presence makes me feel good. A least I’m doing something right.  
  
The awaited day arrives with the hush of snowfall. I begin to form the newly-fallen powder into a fort encircling the fire pit, and make a ledge to sit on. My property is already private, but the semi-circle of snow creates an intimate space. With the fire reflected off the fort it should be agreeably warm. Some of the aspects of my plan have yielded to the desire for comfort. Is it in deference to him, or is he already changing me?  
  
I’m setting the stage, though I don't know what I'm ready for. I'm confident in his affection and care, yet can't shake the feeling that I'm in over my head.  
  
The wall of the fort becomes so tall that it threatens to turn into an igloo. It stops snowing. I take it as a signal to step back and assess what I've made. I think it would be fussy to work on it anymore, so I head inside.  
  
I draw a hot bath. My mind unreels into the water around me as I enter a purely sensory world. Soon there is nothing but the cocoon of heat, the high-pitched humming of my nervous system broken by the occasional click of dog's nails across the wooden floor, the golden light cast by the tungsten bulb above the medicine cabinet, the whorls of steam that rise from the surface of the water into the air above my pale body, the pleasantly antiseptic scent of soap, and the reverberations of my heart.  
  
There's a knock on the door; a hook sinks into my brain. _I didn't tell him what time to come over._  
  
He knocks again. Definitely him. The dogs are barking friendly. I'm still in the tub. Damn it.  
  
I get out as fast as possible for a man with his leg in a cast. I keep forgetting about it, which is good; it hasn't been hurting much. The bottom is dirty, I guess I've been walking on it.  
  
I blink and I'm back in the bathtub. I only dreamed I got out. He's standing over me.  
  
I draw in my breath along with some water and begin to cough violently. He draws back, averts his gaze, and asks, "What do you need?"  
  
The question focuses my attention. I realize then that the water's cold, and that I don’t know long I was unconscious. As soon as I can sort of breathe, I choke out, "I'm sorry. I need…five minutes."  
  
He nods and leaves. I get out of the tub with much less grace than I did in my dream, and poke my head out of the bathroom door. He's nowhere in sight, so I hobble to the dresser. I've humiliated myself. He keeps seeing me at my weakest. I feel like I'm drowning.  
  
I double over to get a better angle to cough the remaining water out of my lungs, and recall that the night I broke my ankle he picked a blue flannel for me. I was distracted at the time, but afterwards I noticed that it was from the middle of the nicer stack of shirts and not merely a random choice. Does he like me in blue?  
  
Still feeling an aqueous tickle deep in my throat, I dig to the bottom of the drawer and find a cashmere sweater that I bought at a thrift shop, with the tags still on. I was attracted to the sky blue, the warmth and softness of the fabric, but I'd never worn it because it seemed too good for my everyday life.  
  
I rip the tags off with my teeth. Foregoing an undershirt, I put the sweater on. I throw on some boxer briefs and jeans that aren't torn or stained. I force myself to look in the mirror. My wet hair is plastered to my face and I look like I did, in fact, drown. It's long enough to make a ponytail, but I can't bring myself to do that. I tuck it behind my ears. I cross the room and ask though the front door, "Are you there?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Can we start over? Pretend that didn't happen?"  
  
A slight pause. "We can start over."  
  
_But not pretend?_  
  
My nerves are present at full-force. I take a deep breath and open the door. I smile and say, "Hello."  
  
He looks me over and returns my smile. "Hello, Will. Good to see you."  
  
"You, too. Please, come in."  
  
He steps inside, greets the dogs, and places the record player on the floor in the vicinity of the bed. Then he draws near to me, encircles my chest with his arms, and squeezes. His hug is firm and steady, and the knotted web of tension throughout my body begins to gradually slacken, replaced by heavy warmth that pours into me. It's like a drug. I'm becoming an addict. I mumble, "I missed you."  
  
"And I missed you."  
  
He gently pulls away and offers me something wrapped in paper. It's a bottle of whiskey. I recognize the label, one of the top-shelf brands that I allow my eyes to sweep over at the liquor store…the sort of bottles that are always dusty, out of the price range of your average shopper, much less me, a guy living off a small inheritance and boat repairs for cash. I have questions for Twigs—such as _where do you do your shopping?_ —but all of them feel presumptuous. So I just smile and accept the gift, and feel happy because it's a really good gift. "Thank you…I've never had this kind. We'll open it after dinner, unless you'd like a taste before we eat? I've also got beer."  
  
"Beer is good."  
  
He follows me as I limp to the kitchen and open a couple of bottles. I hand him one. He raises it and says, "To the cook."  
  
I shake my head. "I'm barely doing anything."  
  
"To the cook," he repeats.  
  
I shrug amicably. We clink and drink. I take ingredients out and arrange them on the counter: peppers, potatoes, fresh herbs, and a nice steak I got from the meat counter. "My idea was to chop all this up, make packets in tin foil, and throw them on the fire."  
  
"Good idea."  
  
He glances at the fireplace. I say, "No, um…follow me."  
  
I lead him through the back door to the fire pit. He examines the inside of the snow fort, then the outside, doing a lap around it. He's grinning happily when he comes back into view. "Will…it’s incredible! Anything I can do to help?"  
  
"How about you light the fire, while I see to the food? The wood pile is over there. There's a lighter by the kindling."  
  
He gets to work, and I go back to the kitchen. I slice the meat into bite-size pieces and divvy it up between us, obeying my instinct to give him more. I do the same with the other ingredients, add some olive oil and spices, then fold up the packets. I grab a blanket and head back outside.  
  
He's created a very aesthetically-pleasing fire. It's already hot, but I don't want to rush the cooking. I put the packets in the snow and say, "Let's wait a bit."  
  
I spread the blanket out on the ledge of the fort and seat myself. He sits beside me, very close but not touching. We both stare into the flames, sipping our beer. I finish mine, then pick at the label, peeling it back in strips. I abruptly notice that he's shifted his gaze onto me. I put the empty bottle down. "Missed sleep?" he asks.  
  
"Yeah. A touch of insomnia, lately."  
  
"Do you know why?"  
  
"I’m prone to nightmares."  
  
"About what?"  
  
I shake my head, opposed to killing the mood. "I'm ready for another beer. You want one?"  
  
He ignores my question and asks, "Is the medication helping?"  
  
"My leg’s feeling better. I haven't needed pain pills for the last few days."  
  
"The other medication."  
  
I don't recall telling him about the sleeping pills. I keep the bottle in the drawer of my bedside table. Has he gone through my belongings?  
  
A feeling of distrust prickles the inside of my stomach. It strengthens, starts to gnaw, until I recall that the doctor warned me that memory loss can be a side effect of the sleeping pills. I can't be sure what I have and haven’t told him. Besides, he has a habit of taking things from my home in anticipation of my needs. It hasn't bothered me before, and would it truly bother me if he _had_ snooped around a little? Is it fair for me to hold him to human standards of behavior?  
  
I'm overanalyzing. He asked a question. Is the medication helping? "It helped. I used it all…I was only given a seven day supply. I'm supposed to schedule a sleep study."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
I look at him, expecting an expression of disapproval, but all I can see is compassion. He says, "I want you to feel good, Will."  
  
"I’m okay. Don’t worry."  
  
I lean over and kiss him, trying to distract us both from my readily apparent problems. He kisses me back, but pulls away quickly and says, "Yes, but, Will…"  
  
"I'll schedule the study. Thanks for the reminder."  
  
I enter the house to get myself another beer, and just to ease my mind I check the drawer of the bedside table. The bottle isn't there. I look in the recycling bin in the kitchen and find it sitting on top of a pile of cans. Easily visible from where we were just standing. The label doesn’t say what it’s for, but the stag-man knows things.  
  
The lack of sleep is getting to me, making me paranoid. It would probably help to talk about the nightmares. The idea of talking about it makes me feel unbearably selfish. This is my problem, not his.  
  
This has always been my problem.  
  
I chug the second beer and open a third. When I return to the fire I see glowing embers at the base, so I place the packets at the periphery. Twigs hasn’t moved. I approach him, gently push his knees apart, and stand between them. By fortunate coincidence, I chose a height for the ledge that brings us face to face when he's sitting and I'm standing. I ask, "How was your week?"  
  
He smiles. "Good."  
  
"That's…good."  
  
Dating is challenging for me, to say the least…but the one thing that’s usually in my favor is that people talk. They talk and talk about themselves. They tell you all you need to know, they share, then over-share, and you really get to know them.  
  
With him, I _have to_ share, in order for him to speak. It’s not my strong suit, making conversation. I often feel I’ve run aground.  
  
"I’ve been foraging," he says.  
  
"For our next meal?"  
  
His smile grows wider, like I’ve given him a gift. "Yes," he says, then adds, speaking slowly to get the most meaning out of the vocabulary I’ve provided him with thus far, "I like our time together. I like being with you."  
  
"I like being with you, too. So much." There’s a question I need to ask. I thought it was too soon, but it feels safe, now, with him looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world. "Are we…are you…seeing anyone else?"  
  
"No. Are you?"  
  
I snort. "Ah…no."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
"How long since I’ve been in a relationship?"  
  
He nods. The question shouldn’t be so hard to answer, but my tongue feels heavy. I think back to the last time I was involved in something resembling a committed relationship, during a brief and disastrous attempt at internet dating. "It has been…let’s see…um…three years. It lasted two months. When he ended it he told me I was… _fuckable_ , but boring and too quiet. I’m not sure what he expected. I was honest, on my profile. Maybe people aren’t."  
  
"Was he open, emotionally?"  
  
"Well, he didn’t hold back how he felt about me."  
  
"Were you open?"  
  
I take a deep breath and another drink. "I kind of can’t help it. Yeah, I’m open…yet…as you can maybe tell…not secure. I want to be close, but the price is…contagion."  
  
"The nightmares…contagion, from me?"  
  
I nod. Tears gather. _Don’t cry._ "May I ask you something, about what you told me…about your sister?"  
  
He nods. I continue, "Did the person responsible…the killer…meet with a suitable fate?"  
  
"He did."  
  
My heart is pounding. "Did you kill him?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You wanted to."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why didn’t you?"  
  
"A person close to me helped me see another way."  
  
"A friend talked you out of it."  
  
He nods. "My friend is responsible for the killer."  
  
"That’s…a very good friend."  
  
I’m surprised to feel a pang of envy over his friendship with someone else. Someone so trusted. A true intimate. I begin to imagine what I’d do to the killer. Lock him away somewhere desolate. Deprive him of the humanity that he had forsaken. "Will…"  
  
How long was I staring into space? "Y-yes?"  
  
"These nightmares have bothered you. I’m sorry."  
  
"Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry that I’m this way. I hope it’s not a dealbreaker."  
  
In response, he kisses my face so many times that I lose count. He eventually stops and says, "No…not at all. What are they like, your nightmares?"  
  
"You don’t want to know."  
  
"Yes, I do," he says firmly.  
  
"You won’t like it."  
  
"Am I supposed to like it?"  
  
"Well…no, I guess that’s not the point…but…" I drain the bottle. "I can’t."  
  
"Why?"  
  
_You’ll leave me._ "It’s disgusting."  
  
"Tell me, please?"  
  
The tears I’ve been holding back roll down my face. If I want intimacy, this is the risk.  
  
I nod.  
  
He waits patiently.  
  
It takes me a few minutes to speak. "I dream I’m the killer. I hunt her…and hurt her. I do horrible, cruel things to her…and sometimes then I…become you…and kill the killer. I…he deserves to die…this man who would dare violate someone you love."  
  
I wait for him to push me away, but instead he draws me to his chest. There’s a silence, during which he rocks me gently, nearly imperceptibly, just like he did when we shared his bed. Again, it seems self-soothing, like he’s clinging to me to assuage a private fear. What could he be afraid of?  
  
After a while, he says softly, "Will…you’re very emotionally open, as you know. I think you take on the pain of what that cruel man did because you feel close to me. You feel responsible because you don’t like being human. But you are a beautiful person."  
  
I shake my head. "A beautiful person would not have such appalling shit in their head."  
  
"You don’t have to be in pain."  
  
I look into his silvery eyes. A vertical column of flame is dancing in each of them, creating the illusion of slit pupils. He looks entirely demonic, and entirely beautiful. A fallen angel. "Oh," I whisper. "How do I make it stop?"  
  
"See what you really are, and be kind to that person."  
  
I contemplate his words. It’s like he’s guiding a lantern into the dark attic of my mind. Is there a monster living there? Do I want there to be?  
  
A log cracks loudly in the fire. We both flinch, then begin to laugh. The mood lifts in an instant. He smiles, the firelight glints off his magnificently weird teeth; the front two incisors are canted backwards slightly, making the eyeteeth appear more prominent. I wonder if his mouth will ever stop being interesting to look at, to touch, to kiss. "Thank you," I say.  
  
"You’re…" he leads.  
  
"Have I not said _you’re welcome_ yet?"  
  
He shakes his head, smirking. He says, "The food is ready."  
  
I retrieve the foil packets and open them gingerly. He’s right; nothing is over or under-done, somehow. I’ve roasted these things to oblivion before, and I’m grateful for his sense of timing, sharp nose, or culinary magic…whatever might be to thank. I furnish him with a fork and we dine contentedly on the ledge.  
  
As soon as I smell the food I realize that I’m extremely hungry, and that I can’t remember when I last ate. I consider that he’s right to imply that I’m not kind to myself.  
  
"Will…it’s so good."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
I watch him eat for a while. He does so with his usual refinement, even sitting here with a crumpled piece of aluminum foil for a bowl. He savors every bite, which prompts me to do the same. There’s an ease about him, an implicit sense of understanding, that is nourishing on a deep level. He doesn’t merely accept me in the sense of tolerating my oddness; he genuinely finds it attractive.  
  
He likes me. The actual person I am.  
  
If he likes me, then maybe it’s okay for me to like me.  
  
When we’re done eating, I summon the courage to ask, "Wanna lie down?"  
  
He does so immediately, stretching out on the ledge on the blanket. Lying on his side, he opens his arms to me and I join him, facing the fire. It’s tight quarters up here, and our bodies are pressed firmly together. We snuggle motionless for several minutes, and again I’m grateful for how he seems to sense my need to set the pace. The downside is I have to take the lead if I want anything to happen.  
  
I bring his hand to my heart. "Touch me?"  
  
He slowly caresses my chest and stomach on top of the sweater. After a while, I pull it off, and he continues to run his palm over me with unhurried strokes. He tentatively kisses my neck, and whispers, "Okay?"  
  
"Mmm-hmm."  
  
Starting at a spot behind my ear, he kisses his way down to my shoulders, pausing now and then to draw my skin very gently between his teeth. He gradually moves his hand toward the front of my jeans, where it grazes the evidence of my arousal. I close my eyes, self-conscious. My body tenses with anticipation. He moves his hand to the waistband and asks, "Mind if I take these off?"  
  
I open my eyes to see that he’s studying my face. Checking to see if he’s overwhelming me. "Y-yeah. _No._ I mean…no, I don’t mind."  
  
He undoes the button and carefully pulls the zipper down. I raise my hips slightly so he can take off the jeans and underwear.  
  
The heat of his skin is like sunlight. Although the fire is warm, the front of my body feels bereft in comparison to the back. I roll onto my back and gesture for him to lie on top. Again, he obeys without hesitation. I tell him, "Let your weight down onto me."  
  
He does so. "Good?"  
  
I nod. "Pressure feels good."  
  
It’s a little difficult to breathe, but it doesn’t bother me. We kiss and kiss until my lips begin to sting from the friction. My erection is nestled in the hollow of his hipbone and I can’t restrain myself from grinding against him.  
  
He sits back and grips my cock. I’m already close to coming; with a few firm strokes he would put me over the edge, but he touches me so slowly, just lightly grazing the skin. I whimper slightly, and cover my mouth, embarrassed. He stops. I quickly say, "That feels really good."  
  
"Something slippery would make it better."  
  
I’m glad that I had the foresight to tuck a small bottle of olive oil into the fold of the blanket. With slightly shaky hands, I find it and give it to him, then grab his hips and pull him closer, so our dicks are pressed together. He pours some oil into his hand and hesitates, just gazing down at me; the pause is long enough that my self-doubt rises to the surface. Was he hoping for something different? I blurt out, "Sorry I’m not ready to…I don’t know if I can…take you…"  
  
"Will, don’t worry about that."  
  
"Do you like it this way?"  
  
"Very much. I like you every way."  
  
He smiles down at me. I nod, my face blushing hot. I hope he can’t see it by the firelight. He slicks us both with the oil, and I realize that he hesitated at least in part to allow it to warm up.  
  
He’s really very considerate and accepting. Taking my anxiety in stride, and not letting it ruin the moment. _Anxious, awkward, weird-_  
  
_Shut up. Calm down._  
  
I need to stop thinking, in order to enjoy this. I shift my focus to my physical senses. The fire smells delicious, and there’s the comforting scent of wool, along with the slightly spicy green aroma of the olive oil, which is paired with the feeling of intense pleasure coiling and roiling through the core of my body. The ecstasy is extreme at the points where our bodies meet, the feedback almost too much for me to handle as he slides his hand over our taut flesh. The vision of him is astounding, the shining darkness of his skin like a living bronze still hot from the forge. His mouth finds mine again and again, chafing exquisitely, a good pain. There’s a void inside of me that aches to engulf him. _I take it back, please fuck me, god, fuck me now or I’ll die_ — but I’m coming before the thought can bloom into words, I’m coming, my vision fading to grey.  
  
When I regain myself I see that he timed it so we climaxed together. He holds me, even though we’re sticky and I’m incredibly sweaty. The damp wool prickles against my back. "S-shower?" I suggest.  
  
He follows me inside. My legs are kind of numb. I wrap the cast in a plastic bag and run medical tape around the top. He raises his eyebrows and nods, impressed.  
  
We rinse off. He picks up the shampoo and asks, "May I?"

For a moment I’m not sure what he intends to do with the shampoo, considering his lack of hair. Then I realize he wants to use it on me. I washed my hair earlier in the evening, but I suppose it’s sweaty enough to benefit from it, and the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like this is something he really wants. "Sure, go for it."  
  
The scalp massage he proceeds to treat me to is nothing short of transcendent.  
  
After the shower, I feel pleasantly fuzzy-headed. We relocate to the kitchen, where I open the bottle of whiskey and pour us each a glass. "To us," I say, standing there naked, suddenly not shy in the slightest.  
  
"To us," he repeats back to me.  
  
I’m not sure if there are tears of joy in his eyes, or if it’s water from the shower.  
  
We sip. It’s delicious, of course. I slide my good foot into a snow boot, take Twigs by the hand, and lead him back outside. When we get to the firepit I grab the wool blanket, throw it around my shoulders like a cloak, then walk off into the darkness. I glance back to see him staring at me hesitantly. I hold out my hand. "C’mon…I’ve got something to show you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi.

I’m giddy, but I've got his hand for support, and a plan I’m confident he’ll like.  
   
I lead him to the back of my property, through a stand of trees, to a clearing. It’s dark here, beyond the reach of the lights of my little house and our bonfire. Squinting, I see the glow of the red lantern I set out earlier to guide us. We draw near to it.  
  
He takes the lantern from the top of the ladder and moves it over the huge cylindrical device set up on the ground. He smiles in my direction, then puts an eye to the telescope, fingers falling naturally on the focus ring.  
  
I think he’s a genius.  
  
After a moment he steps away and asks, "Did you make this?"  
  
"Yeah…it’s a Dobsonian. Dobson…he figured out how to make a big telescope accessible to amateurs."  
  
He makes a slow sweeping gesture at the sky teeming with stars. "What do you like about it?"  
  
"The beauty would be enough for most."  
  
"Enough for you?"  
  
"I also like seeing what’s hidden in the darkness. Finding the bright points like anchors…like islands. I get the same feeling sailing at night. Sailors used to navigate by the stars."  
  
"When you can’t go sailing, you’ve got the telescope."  
  
"Exactly. I’d probably spend my life on the water if I could."  
  
"Why can’t you?"  
  
"Well…there’s the dogs, and…I’m isolated enough as is. I might get…lost. At sea…in every possible sense."  
  
Why am I telling him this? I climb the ladder and look through the finder until I find something good to observe. As I aim the main scope and focus it, he says quietly, "Maybe if I’m with you, you won’t get lost."  
  
I’m suddenly very aware of my heartbeat. I’ve always been a solitary sailor, in reality and in my mind. It’s the only place where I feel truly at peace, and every time I’ve tried to imagine someone with me, it’s felt wrong.  
  
Until now. He fits into my life like a missing puzzle piece.  
  
I come down from the ladder. The red light limns his face. His expression is sincere. I ask, "You like sailing?"  
  
He shrugs. "I like _you_."  
  
I laugh. "Look in the scope, quick, before it’s out of view."  
  
He doesn’t need the ladder. "Beautiful," he murmurs. "What is it?"  
  
"Markarian’s Chain. A string of galaxies. Trillions of stars. Oh…I forgot the record player."  
  
"I’ll get it."  
  
"While you’re at it, grab another blanket, please? You can take it from the bed."  
  
He nods and stalks off across the snow. I climb the ladder again and find us a nice star cluster. He returns and puts a hat on my head and another blanket around my shoulders. Smirking, I ask, "Are you afraid I’m going to catch a cold? I’m pretty sure that’s a myth."  
  
"Maybe so."  
  
The blanket does feel good, but I peel it off and spread it on the ground. I place the record player on it, open the case, and select a record from the selection he brought. I wind the crank like I saw him do. The sweet, sorrowful sound of a violin sails out over the snow. One of the dogs barks in reply.  
  
The music is a perfect accompaniment. It also eases the pressure to make conversation. He’s either riveted by what I’m showing him or doing a very good job of feigning interest. I push away my stubborn insecurity and choose to believe the former. A sort of trance comes over me as I move the scope around the sky. I’m aware I’m sharing with another set of eyes, another mind, but he feels like a part of me now, like we’re seeing and feeling simultaneously.  
  
We spend the next few hours observing, until the moon rises and makes it too bright to see faint objects through the telescope.  
  
Long shadows crowd the clearing, deep violet and writhing on the nacre shimmer of the snow. There’s something disturbing about their jittery motion. I lie down on the blanket so my entire field of vision is nothing but stars and a couple of errant clouds. He’s beside me. I spread the other blanket over us. The current record ends, but neither of us move.  
  
The stars are glorious, endless, and the cold air feels good on my face in contrast with the combined warmth of our bodies. I drift into a daydream that we’re on the deck of a ship, on a motionless sea, outside of time.  
  
I wake to the smell of delicious cooking, and the sight of steam rising in a curling column against the morning light as Twigs pours coffee into a mug. I’m in my bed. He brings a plate laden with breakfast for us both. There's bacon, hash browns, and slices of toast into each of which he’s somehow embedded an egg.  
  
I could get used to this, but it still feels so strange and undeserved. "Wow…um, thanks," I say.  
  
"You’re welcome," he says between bites of toast.  
  
I feel myself blush as I admit, "I don’t remember going to bed."  
  
"I brought you in. I hope it was okay to stay."  
  
"You’re worried about being rude by imposing on me, while I fall asleep during half our dates."  
  
"You need sleep to get well."  
  
"Am I unwell?"  
  
"The broken bones, the surgery, insomnia…"  
  
"Ah, right."  
  
I wiggle my toes. My ankle aches only slightly. I see that it’s propped on a pillow. I continue, "Anyway, I’m glad you stayed. Um…if you don’t have any plans for the day…maybe we could…do something?"  
  
He grins, not trying to hide his pleasure, but his voice is sedate as he asks, "What did you have in mind?"  
  
I feel like I should come up with something slightly more sophisticated than _have sex all day_. "We could go for a…ramble through the woods with the dogs."  
  
I avoided the word _walk_ so as not to whip the pack into a frenzy, but my border collie Sugar knows what _ramble_ means and is now staring sharply at me. The stag man says, "I’d like that."  
  
I dress in proper attire, including the hat that he seems hellbent on having me wear. We all head outside. I take one crutch with me.  
  
It’s surprisingly warm today, and the trees are dripping as the bright sun melts the snow off their boughs. The droplets catch the light as they fall, licks of flame hinting at the spring thaw and all the life sleeping in the earth.  
  
The stag-man can disappear into the shadows at night, but by day he’s a stark contrast with the snow. Maybe if he held perfectly still, he might camouflage himself in a stand of trees. I think of the meat in the stew he cooked. I didn’t see any hunting tools at his place. "What kind of predator are you?"  
  
He turns to me, tilting his head. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Nocturnal? Pursuit, ambush, trapper? Small or large game?"  
  
"As I can."  
  
"Opportunistic?"  
  
"You could say."  
  
"Do you like venison?"  
  
"I do. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Oh…I guess I was curious. It seems a little cannibalistic."  
  
He regards me, his expression entirely unreadable. _Fuck. What did I say?_ I add, "I mean…because you’ve got…antlers. And so do deer."  
  
_Brilliant observation. What’s your point, idiot?_  
  
We walk in silence for about a minute, during which I become convinced that I’ve insulted him. I’m about to apologize when he asks, voice tranquil as ever, "If it _is_ cannibalistic, is that wrong?"  
  
"I didn’t mean to imply—"  
  
He stops me gently by the elbow, smiling mildly. "Will…I’m curious about you, too. Don’t be afraid to tell me what you really think. Do you think it’s wrong?"  
  
I shake my head. "It’s not my place to judge, but if it doesn’t make you sick—I mean _prion disease_ sick, not _moral disgust_ sick—it’s not disgusting, d-doesn’t offend my morals."  
  
_Shut up and think about what you’re saying for a fucking second._  
  
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I try again, "I think…if it’s nourishing and comes naturally to you, then it can’t be wrong."  
  
His smile deepens. "You have a wonderful mind. For you, I’ll cook venison with morels. Without morals."  
  
It takes a moment for his joke to sink in. My laugh begins as a shudder in my stomach and gets stuck somewhere in my throat. It’s either going to choke me or I have to let it out…so I set it free, knowing that what I told him is the truth. Knowing that he would smell it if it wasn’t.  
  
We continue our walk, catching up with the dogs over a small hill. To my horror, I see they’ve discovered a patch of mud. Some are sniffing at the periphery of the sodden soil, others are rooting around for sticks. The retriever mixes are enjoying a full-on wallow. As I watch, Herman emerges from the middle of the wide puddle; usually white with tawny brown patches, he is now completely covered in thick black glop from the tip of his foxy snout to his smugly wagging tail.  
  
Crosby, a yellow lab mix, brings me a stick, looking very proud of himself. I say flatly, "Good job."  
  
He shakes off; I don’t attempt to evade the spatter. Some of the smaller dogs come to me; the mud-soaked ones are shivering already. I turn towards the stag-man and say, "I don’t want to cut things short, but I need to go back to the house and take care of this."  
  
"Want help?"  
  
Washing one _slightly_ dirty dog might be romantic to some people, but this is a monumental task. "It’s going to take hours to get them clean."  
  
"I don’t mind."  
  
"Can’t you smell that?"  
  
The mud reeks of decomposing vegetation and who knows what else. Twigs nods readily. "It’s okay."  
  
"C’mon…it’s pretty fucking far from okay."  
  
"I’m fine with it. Really."  
  
I raise my eyebrows and shrug. "All right. _Yeah_ , I could use help… _again_. Someday, I hope you’ll need my help with something. Anything."  
  
When we get home, I strategize how to minimize the inevitable mess. It’s still too cold to spray them with the hose. I decide to work from smallest to largest and carry them one at a time to the bathroom, leaving the others outside to wait their turn.  
  
We start with Herman. Despite being only ten inches tall, he is an accomplished jumper. Twigs keeps him in the tub while I massage the muck out of his fur using copious amounts of shampoo. Once the water finally runs clear, I towel him off and release him from the bathroom. He immediately jumps onto my bed and starts to roll around frantically, snuffing and grunting. The stag-man looks at me. I shake my head and say, "Choosing my battles today."  
  
We gradually work through the pack, switching tasks at intervals, and I’m once again impressed by his patient and careful manner. He handles the dogs gently but with authority, and is thorough when it’s his turn to wash, even cleaning the caked mud from between the pads of their paws.  
  
It’s nearly three in the afternoon when everyone is mud-free at last. We sit at the kitchen table, and I pour us both a glass of the fine whisky he gave me. I toast, "To you, for your noble sacrifice."  
  
He gives a small bow. He seems just as content as he did in the morning. I say, "I’m hungry. Are you?"  
  
He rises, as if that was a request for him to make dinner. "No," I say. "You relax. I’m cooking."  
  
I proceed to make fish and chips, served with malt vinegar. I’m not a great cook by any means, but I can batter and fry a fish filet, and tonight it comes out perfect.  
  
I let him help me clean up, and then we stand there in the kitchen, just looking at each other. Emboldened by whiskey, I reach out and run my hand slowly down his chest. "The bed’s all doggy."  
  
In response, he picks me up and carries me upstairs.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s after sunset when he leaves.  
  
I see him out. We linger on the porch. "Saturday, my place?" he asks, like it’s even a question.  
  
"Saturday…yes," I answer, dreading the 144 hours or so until then.  
  
I can only watch him take a few steps towards the woods before I have to look away. It’s getting to the point where it hurts to be apart.  
  
I tell myself it’s better to space out our time together. I have no idea what I’m talking about.  
  
I return to the upstairs bedroom and gaze out of the window at the stark indigo landscape, not really seeing anything.  
  
My mind escapes my willful control and pursues him through the woods. Stalking stealthily, I follow him home, watch him put the record player back in its usual spot. It’s too early to sleep. He heads back outside…to go hunting? No…he’s got a candle. He goes to the root cellar and opens the door. Down the stairs…he stoops, moves inside. It’s deeper than I thought. Is he taking stock? Already planning our next dinner? I follow him…descending carefully, step by step. My foot is about to contact the dirt floor when he suddenly turns toward me. He draws close, brings the candle between our faces, smiling like he knew I was there the whole time. He blows out the flame.  
  
I come to my senses. The sky is black. The window offers my reflection; I shy away from it, ashamed of my imaginary voyeurism.  
  
_Stick to known territory. Don’t go exploring._  
  
I lie down on the bed. I think of this room as the guest room even though no guests have stayed here. The mattress is firm, unused before tonight. I bought it when I moved in, to complete the wooden bed frame that was already here. I thought my dad might visit, but that didn’t happen. I only come upstairs to check the roof for leaks and lately for my footprints. This room has always felt out of phase, like it belongs to another household, to the people who will live here when I’m dead.  
  
Now it feels more substantial. At least I can say I’ve lived a little. Maybe I would be justified in calling it my living room if the stag-man comes back, if we do what we did again.  
  
The memory floods over me and heats my skin. He kisses a path from the hollow between my collarbones downward, downward incrementally, leaving no question about where he’s going to end up but it’s so slow and controlled and he’s got all the power over me that he could ever want. All I can do is lie there and wait. I start to shake, worse than usual, as he reaches my stomach. He lifts his head and asks, "Should I stop?"  
  
"No."  
  
He still hesitates. Puts a reassuring hand on my chest. I must look frightened. I _am_ frightened, but equally aroused; it’s difficult for me to separate the two. I offer him an explanation, "Sometimes I shake when I’m turned on."  
  
"Oh." He runs his hand over my ribs for a moment, then brings his mouth to my skin exactly where he left off and continues to make his way down my torso. He bites gently at the edge of my navel. His breath tickles as he asks, "May I taste you?"  
  
"Y-yeah."  
  
I don’t last long, which is a shame, because although I’m minimally experienced I can tell that he’s very talented. I reciprocate with less skill but equal enthusiasm, and apparently it’s enough to satisfy him. Knowing that my best is good enough, that I’m capable of giving him real pleasure, is gratifying in a way that I’m not used to.  
  
We snuggle until the orange winter sun leaves the sky.  
  
Now, in the dark, I touch my mouth, recalling his taste. I feel that strange power, the same as when I take him by the antlers. That such a being could be at my mercy—in any way—feels uncommonly good.  
  
I lie there until Sugar comes to herd me back to the pack. I go downstairs and let the dogs out for a long run, since our morning walk was abbreviated.

When I come inside to fix myself a small dinner, I glance at the calendar and notice I’ve written something on Monday. Tomorrow. It says 'Doctor.'  
  
When did I do that?  
  
I check my phone. There’s an automated voicemail from my orthopedist confirming a follow-up appointment for 10 AM.  
  
After dinner, I drink a little, but not so much that there’s a chance I’ll oversleep. I feel like it would be a bad idea to blow off this appointment, even though whenever I’m in the presence of a doctor I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing and they’ll have me committed.  
  
I should be committed. For observation, at the very least. Would Twigs be allowed to visit me in the mental ward?  
  
I get a partially good night’s sleep, with only one nightmare in which I’m lobotomized.  
  
The morning drive is not bad. My hair is combed, face clean-shaven. Socially acceptable.  
  
The doctor’s office looks exactly like a doctor’s office. A nurse signs me in and escorts me to a room where I sit on a table for what feels like too long, staring at a plastic model of a human skeleton. The skull gapes like it’s surprised, or laughing at me. On the counter next to the sink is a model of the knee. The rubber menisci and ligaments and such are peeled away from the resin bone. It looks like a terrifying exotic flower.  
  
The doctor comes in. For some reason I was expecting the woman who prescribed me the sleeping pills and insisted on the sleep study, but this doctor is obviously a man. Of course, this is my surgeon. I remember meeting him as the nurses started my pre-anesthesia at the hospital.   
  
"Mr. Graham?"  
  
I give him my attention. He asks the usual questions, I give succinct answers. _I’ve been good. Hasn’t hurt much._  
  
He seems taken aback by the condition of my cast. "Wow, Mr. Graham, you really walked on this."  
  
Oh, crap. Did I mess up the surgery? "You said that was okay."  
  
"It’s definitely okay. Weight bearing as tolerated means just that, but most people can’t _tolerate_ walking this soon. It’s good, though. Let’s get rid of the cast, check out the surgical site, get you in a boot, and you can be on your way."  
  
The skin under the plaster looks pallid and clammy, like that of a larva you could find sleeping under a rock. "Gross," I say.  
  
He chuckles. "You can start washing it."  
  
He cleans the wounds. The scars are fresh, but appear to be healing nicely. My ankle is still quite bruised. He feels it a bit and says, "Good. I’ll be right back with the boot."  
  
He comes back with a giant box out of which he unpacks what looks like an astronaut’s boot. He shows me how to put it on and take it off. I demonstrate that I can do it myself, and he walks me out of the exam room. He asks, "How’s that feel?"  
  
"Better than the cast."  
  
"Excellent. Wear it all the time except when you wash. I want to schedule more imaging in a couple of weeks."  
  
"Can I afford that?"  
  
"Um…I think you’re covered for whatever tests are needed. I’ll have billing check on that and give you a call."  
  
"What do I owe you for today?"  
  
"Nothing! Have a good one, Mr. Graham."  
  
I’m puzzled, but I’m not going to argue with _free_. I have the cheapest insurance someone can have, but at least I have insurance. Maybe I hit my deductible in the hospital. I haven’t received the bill yet. I’ve been highly distracted.  
  
I head home and enter via the back door into the kitchen. The dogs inspect the new boot. "Not a chew toy," I mumble, knowing that if I leave it unattended it will be gnawed. Especially if it smells like foot.  
  
I feed the dogs, then make myself a sandwich. I’m about to sit down to eat when I hear a car door slam. It’s close by… _in my driveway_ close. Another door slams. The dogs begin to bark. I move to the window and peek out. There are two male police officers approaching my house. "Quiet," I command.  
  
Half of the dogs listen. This is bad. I move next to the door, out of view of the window. There’s a loud knock. The dogs go nuts. I don’t shush them this time. I stay motionless.  
  
A pause, then another pounding knock. "William Graham?"  
  
My heart is racing. Seconds stretch into an agonizing infinity, then the knocking resumes. "Mr. Graham?!" The voice is louder this time. "This is the police. We’d like to speak with you."  
  
I stay silent. After another pause the officer says, "Mr. Graham, I hear dogs barking. Are they any dogs out here we should be concerned about?"  
  
Is that what this is about, or just a way to get me talking? Last year I had trouble with my neighbors, who claimed that one of my dogs was running loose and attacked their seven-year-old kid as she rode her tricycle down the road unsupervised. The child recovered from the minor bite without complications or scarring, but the family claimed extensive emotional trauma. It turned out to be a stray that bit her; I paid to have the bite patterns of my dogs examined and compared to the wound, and none of them matched. Additionally, my dogs all passed aggression testing. The case was dismissed. My lawyer—in addition to successfully defending my case—advised me of my rights in general, namely that I don’t have to open my door for the police unless they have a warrant. If they have a warrant, they’ll break the door down themselves.  
  
Based on how hard this cop is banging on my door, it might just fall off the hinges. "Mr. Graham, are there any dogs loose outside?"  
  
"Hello," I say, calmly and clearly. "No, they’re in here. I’m securing them."  
  
I corral the dogs upstairs. It takes a few minutes. I don’t want the police to perceive that there is any sort of imminent threat to anyone’s safety that would legitimize them entering my home. I return to the front door but do not open it. The cop tries again, "Are you William Graham?"  
  
"What’s this about?"  
  
"We want to talk to Mr. Graham about someone he did business with. Do you know Birk McCauley?"  
  
I have to think for a second. He’s the guy who was a jerk about the engine repair. He warned me not to fuck with him and I didn’t. So, what’s this about? I want to know, but I know better than to talk to police any more than barely necessary. "I’m not answering questions today, sorry."  
  
"Mr. Graham, you can talk to us now, or down at the station."  
  
I don’t respond. I quietly sit down next to the door and wait. They persist for several more minutes, asking me to open up, to talk. I finally announce, "I have nothing to say to you. I’ll contact my lawyer and have her contact you."  
  
"What’s your lawyer’s name?" he counters.  
  
"Leave your business cards, and I’ll have her contact you."  
  
I hear them shift around on the porch, peering through the window, probably, looking for any suspicious items in view. I’m glad my rifle is in its case in the closet. They descend the porch steps. I hear them talking indistinctly to each other for the next few minutes as they circle around my property. I move quietly to the bathroom, where the curtain is drawn, so we don’t see each other through the windows. I cannot bear to make eye contact with them. They eventually return to their car and take their time pulling out of my driveway.  
  
I can feel something akin to a panic attack coming on. Before it gets so bad that I can’t use my hands, I retrieve their business cards from the porch, find my lawyer’s card, and call her. I get her voicemail. I briefly explain the situation, give her the officers’ names, and leave my callback information. I reach for the cheap whiskey—not the good stuff the stag man gave me—to drown out the hollow drone of my swarming thoughts.  
  
I sit on the bed and draw the blankets around me. I take a few swigs from the bottle and let my mind drift out of my body. It would work better in water but I’m not risking falling asleep in the tub again.  
  
My phone buzzes with an incoming call two hours later. It’s my lawyer. I let it go to voicemail. She apologizes for the delay but she wanted to get information for me. She informs me that there are currently no warrants to search my home or arrest me. The police are investigating the recent death of Mr. McCauley. She advises that I speak with her, and only her, as soon as possible.  
  
I want this to be a nightmare, but it isn’t.  
  
I drink more. It’s not helping me think, not that thinking is helping. I feel like there’s no way I can speak at the moment, but I know I should do exactly what my lawyer says and call her back. It’s four in the afternoon. I don’t know what kind of hours she normally keeps. During the case with the dogs she spent a lot of time with me off the books, probably to keep me from having a breakdown. An animal lover herself, she was kind to me, and charged me minimal fees. She said you had to be like a junkyard dog to be a defense lawyer.  
  
I force myself to call her. She answers on the first ring, "Foxx and Foltz, this is Suzanne Foltz."  
  
I cough. "Sorry. Got your message."  
  
"Hi, Will. How are you doing?"  
  
"Not good."  
  
"Understandable. I know you don’t like the phone. Can I come to you?"  
  
"Right now?"  
  
"We want to get ahead of this thing as soon as possible. I need you to tell me what happened, including with the cops today. The fresher the memory, the better."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"See you in a half hour. It’s gonna be okay."  
  
Suzanne is only a few years older than me, and there’s something big-sisterly about the way she treats me, at least from my perspective as an only child who often wondered what it would be like to grow up with a sibling.  
  
I clean up the house to kill time as I wait for her to arrive. I make my bed, and put the uneaten sandwich in the fridge because I feel sick to my stomach. I put the whiskey in the cabinet and brush my teeth to try to mask the smell, probably an exercise in futility.  
  
When I hear a car door slam my panic is renewed, but I glance out and see Suzanne, her brunette bob and professional attire entirely lawyerly and capable. I open the door and the dogs greet her. She takes the time to pet them, then we move wordlessly to the kitchen table. Eying my orthopedic boot, she asks, "What happened to your leg and when?"  
  
"I broke it two weeks ago."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I fell in the woods. Would you like coffee?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
She gets out a notepad and writes something down while I make coffee for both of us. When it’s ready and I’m seated, she says, "Will, you need to be entirely honest with me."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Take me through everything you remember about Birk McCauley and your interactions."  
  
"He called me about a month ago. Someone I’d done an engine repair for referred him to me."  
  
"Can you get me the exact date and time of the call, please?"  
  
I look through my voicemails and find it, play it for her. She takes notes, then asks, "He brought an engine to your house?"  
  
"An outboard motor, yes. He brought it the next day. He watched while I looked it over. I told him basic service was two hundred, but he’d kept it in storage without maintaining it for so long that there would probably be additional costs, up to five or six hundred total. I don’t have any record of this, but we verbally discussed and agreed on it. He said to do whatever was needed. He said he wasn’t in a rush. I took my time working on it. It turned out it did need those extra repairs, replacement parts."  
  
"You worked on the motor, as agreed. Then what happened?"  
  
I look through my phone again for the incoming call record. "Twelve days ago, on a Tuesday, two days after I broke my ankle, I got a call from him. He offered to pay extra if I could finish the repair by that Friday. I agreed. He came to get it on Friday. He only gave me two hundred. I asked him for an additional three hundred. He refused to give it to me."  
  
"Did you argue about it?"  
  
I sigh, reliving the humiliating conversation. "I dunno if you could call it arguing. I reminded him of our agreement and he pretended not to remember. He threatened me."  
  
"With physical violence?"  
  
"He did this," I say as I stand up and jab my finger towards Suzanne, taking a step toward her in my best effort to look intimidating. "I told him to leave or I’d call the police. He laughed, then warned me not to fuck with him…and that nobody would miss me."  
  
I sit back down and continue, "I said, _you’re right_. And he left."  
  
"He owed you money?"  
  
"Ah, well, no. The next morning I found an envelope on my porch with the three hundred. I guess he reconsidered. I didn’t think about it much after that, and didn’t hear from him again."  
  
"Do you have the envelope by any chance?"  
  
I go over to my desk and open the drawer. I kept it because it was much nicer than your average envelope, made from heavy, cream-colored paper, with a maroon lining. I bring it to Suzanne. She doesn’t touch it; she has me put it inside a sandwich bag before she examines it. She says, "This is good…it’s distinctive. If his prints are on it and they can match it to a stationary set or something at his place, that corroborates your story. Do you still have any of the cash from the envelope?"  
  
I open my wallet and take out the remaining one-hundred-eighty dollars. I also bag it and give it to her. I ask, "They can get prints from cash?"  
  
"Yeah, and DNA, apparently. It would be better if he had paid you with a card, but they’ll check to see if he withdrew three hundred dollars around the time he paid you."  
  
"They think I killed him over money?"  
  
"Someone killed him. He owed others money…he had a lot of debt. But you were the last to see him. The coroner said time of death was hard to establish because of how cold it was. But considering he didn’t show up for his fishing trip on Saturday morning and his buddies called in a missing persons, he was probably killed late Friday or very early Saturday. Friends and family said his house wasn’t disturbed, his truck was there, he was just missing. They found the body yesterday in a small pond about a mile from his home. The killer had chipped out a hole and slid the body under the ice. Was careful to cover his footsteps, too. If not for the random warm weather, the body might have stayed hidden for longer."  
  
"He was killed outside?"  
  
"Yeah, um. It’s been on the news. You haven’t seen anything about it?"  
  
"I try to avoid that stuff. It gives me bad dreams. It’s hard enough to sleep."  
  
She makes eye contact. She looks compassionate and regretful. "Will, I’m on your side, legally and as a friend. I think you’re a good guy. But I need you to tell me now if the police have any solid reason to suspect you."  
  
I look into my coffee cup. "I’m…odd. I was the last to see him…he threatened me, maybe told someone I threatened him…I don’t know…I sleepwalk."  
  
"Sleepwalk? A sleep disorder? Has it been medically diagnosed and documented?"  
  
"I told them at the hospital. It’s how I broke my leg…I woke up in the woods. I’ve woken up in weird places. I’m supposed to have a sleep study."  
  
I begin to tremble uncontrollably as the words spill out of me, "I’m not entirely sure I didn’t do this."  
  
"You think you killed a man in your sleep?"  
  
"I don’t know! I’ve been having vivid nightmares. The bottom of the cast was dirty. I’d been walking on it."  
  
"Cast?"  
  
"It’s gone now."  
  
"Let me see if I understand. You think you may have done this…because he humiliated you? And in your sleep, you sought revenge? With your leg broken just days prior, in a cast, you overpowered a man significantly larger and stronger than you? Mutilated the body, cut a hole in the ice, and shoved him under? That strikes me as extremely unlikely."  
  
"M-mutilated?"  
  
"Yeah. He was killed with a knife. The killer would’ve been covered in blood."  
  
I shudder. I immediately want to check all the knives in the house. She repeats, "Extremely unlikely."  
  
She’s reasonable. Rational. Grounded in reality. I should take her word for it. Why do I feel guilty?  
  
I remember what Twigs said about being emotionally open. Maybe it’s not my guilt. I shake my head, try to clear the noise. It persists. Damn, I want a drink. I say, "I need to calm down."  
  
She nods enthusiastically. "Without physical evidence, they are _not_ going to pin this on you just because you happen to be odd. And despite being odd, you have a clientele base who can vouch for the quality of your character. I remember how upset you were about that girl being bitten, despite the fact that your dog didn’t do it. I know your heart’s in the right place, but appearing upset makes you look responsible. You are innocent of this crime, Will."  
  
I so badly want to believe her. But there’s a lump in my throat. I nod. She continues, "Now, what did you say to the cops?"  
  
"That I had nothing to say and you would contact them."  
  
"Attaboy! Okay, what I need you to do is remain calm. Keep to your normal routine. Don’t talk to anyone…I know you know that. If the cops show up again, do the same thing—tell them I’ll contact them."  
  
She looks at my hands, white-knuckled on the mug. I’m still trembling. She adds, "I know this is horrible. Not just being under suspicion, but the crime itself. I’d advise you to follow your instincts and don’t watch the news. I think you should go ahead and have that sleep study as soon as possible."  
  
"But…what if it shows I _do_ have a disorder?"  
  
She sighs. "If that’s true, and it gives any credence whatsoever to your theory of homicidal sleepwalking…then it’s best we have a doctor officially confirm that you are wholly unconscious of your actions in such a state and thus inherently _not guilty_ of anything you may have _allegedly_ done during such an episode."  
  
"Cover-your-ass insanity defense?"  
  
"It would fall under the mental illness umbrella, yes. That would be a last resort kind of thing. I doubt it will come to anything near that. Still, for your own well-being, have the sleep study. You look exhausted, no offense."  
  
"None taken. It’s true."  
  
"Is there anything else I should know?"  
  
_I’m in love with a monster I met in the woods. I’m not sure if he’s real. He is definitely capable of committing the crime._ "No, I think that’s it."  
  
"Okay. If anything comes up, or you need to talk, call me. I will contact you as soon as I know more about where the investigation is going."  
  
"Thanks, Suzanne."  
  
"You’re welcome. Try to get some sleep. It’s going to be okay."  
  
As soon as she’s gone, I gather every bladed implement in the house, including scissors, butcher knife, paring knives, butter knives and my pocket knife. I closely inspect each in turn and put them one by one into in a bucket of hot water and bleach, aware that if someone were to see me it would look like I was trying to cover up evidence.  
  
There isn’t any blood.  
  
Could he have done it?  
  
Of course he _could_ have. We already established that. _Did_ he?  
  
Against everyone’s better judgment, I turn on the television to the local news. I don’t have to wait long. It’s irresponsible reporting, giving up too many details of the crime, probably for ratings. A mutilated body found floating in a pond, legs missing below the knees along with the internal organs except for the victim’s heart, which was discovered in his throat—  
  
_Eat it._  
  
That’s what he said to me.  
  
To _me_. Twigs nowhere in sight.  
  
Was he listening? Watching, from the woods?  
  
The smell of bleach is intense. It smells like guilt.  
  
I bring the bucket to the bathroom and pour the knives and bleach into the bathtub. I turn on the shower and thoroughly rinse the jumble of sharp objects. The dishwasher would have been just as effective. I’m being dramatic.  
  
The guy was a jerk. He had other enemies.  
  
Heart in his throat. Poetic justice.  
  
I cover my face. I can’t handle this. I need to know.  
  
I dry off my folding knife and tuck it into my pocket along with a flashlight. I put on my coat and head outside.


	9. Chapter 9

I’m on auto-pilot, controlled by instinct or something else. I’m not ruling out demonic possession.  
  
I think I’ll lose my nerve long before I reach the creek, but I don’t. I wade across the frigid water. At its deepest point it’s up around my chest. I reach the other bank and continue on.    
  
I draw near to his cottage, moving quietly now. I’m still getting used to the boot, but I step softly through the slushy snow. The moon hasn’t risen yet. It’s very dark.   
  
I reach the cottage. I see the warm glow of firelight through the window and smell smoke. I proceed to the side of the house and make my way to the root cellar. I unlatch the door and pull it open all the way, lay it down on the snow.  
  
He could lock me inside if he wanted to. The thought fills me with dread. I find a rock and place it near the hinge of the door, blocking it from closing.  
  
I descend into the cellar, where I turn on my flashlight. There are boxes of root vegetables and jars of preserves near the stairs. I step further inside. Hanging near the back wall is a shank of meat. It looks just like the legs on display in fancy butcher shops. Something with the foot still attached.  
  
That part is covered by a gauzy fabric. I reach out to pull it off. My hand twitches away of its own accord. I force myself to grip the fabric and tug. It peels away from a human foot.  
  
It looks so absurd, I start to laugh.  
  
I turn around, expecting him to be behind me. He doesn’t disappoint. His expression is blank. I feel cold in every sense. My voice sounds robotic as I say, "You killed him. We ate…some of him, in the stew."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why’d you do it?"  
  
"He would dare violate someone I love."  
  
It takes me a moment to place the original context of those words. It was what I said to him, justifying the death of his sister’s killer. "It was just a little money. It was nothing."  
  
"It wasn’t nothing."  
  
He’s right. At the time I felt distinctly threatened. "He backed off."  
  
"He was rude."  
  
"You killed him for being rude?"  
  
The stag-man nods. "He was a bad person."  
  
I put my hands in my pockets. My right hand closes around my folding knife. I say, "They think I did it."  
  
"Not for long."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"You have nothing to worry about. Will, you’re cold. Come inside, to the fire."  
  
He begins to move toward me. I take the knife out, open the blade, and hold it by my side. "Stay away."  
  
He stops advancing. I say, "Let me out."  
  
He hesitates, then steps aside. The root cellar is just wide enough that I can edge around him while maintaining a distance—and my knife—between us. We both know that he would win the fight, but I could still hurt him.  
  
Judging from his expression, I already have.  
  
I don’t care about that right now.  
  
I begin to ascend the stairs backward, my eyes locked on him. Just before his face is out of view, he says, "Will, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you."  
  
I pause.  
  
Do I have the right to say he has done wrong?  
  
_He eats people!_  
  
I told him I don’t think cannibalism is wrong. Getting squeamish about it now is hypocritical. Sure, he fed me someone without telling me. But I didn’t ask what kind of meat it was. It was delicious.  
  
The fact that I’ve eaten human meat really ought to make me feel nauseated, but I’m far more distressed by the knowledge that he took a life for me. "I would never want you to do something like that. His death is on my conscience."  
  
"You put his death on your conscience."  
  
"I can’t turn off my conscience! Can you?!"  
  
He tilts his head slightly, and I realize our biggest difference. He answers, "My conscience is my own."  
  
"Have you killed before?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How many?"  
  
"A lot."  
  
"N-not only as a matter of survival?"  
  
"Not only."  
  
The knife handle is slippery with sweat. "I’m not okay with that."  
  
"You dream you’re a killer."  
  
"Those are nightmares. I don’t enjoy them."  
  
That’s a lie. I enjoy them while they’re happening. It’s only when I return to consciousness that the crushing guilt descends on me, proportional to the extreme pleasure I experience while dreaming. Just because it feels good doesn’t mean I want to enact any of it in reality. I decidedly do not.  
  
I say, "I’m not…like that. I’m leaving now. Stay away from me."  
  
If he rushed at me, I’d be impaled on the antlers. He stays where he is. I ascend out of the cellar. He doesn’t follow. I walk backward until I’ve passed his house. Soon I’m in the woods, then in the creek. I stop midway. It would be easy to let go of life, or to cause life to lose its hold on my body. The pitch black water feels like it’s pouring into a hollow where my heart should be. I feel myself growing heavier. If I lie down, could I sink like a stone to the riverbed? It seems a good place to rest.  
  
I think of my dogs. I push on, to the other side.


	10. Chapter 10

This is either the best or worst time to have the sleep study. Hard to tell.

I haven’t slept in three days, so I’m—supposedly—very sleepy. Teetering on the edge of collapse, more likely.

On the other hand, I may be hallucinating from sleep deprivation as an independent variable. Separate from the rampant mental illness.

Even without the fact that Twigs is obviously not human…that is, even without the hallucination or delusion that something like him could be real, there’s the fact that he kills and eats people. As an independent variable. Variables.

I’m trying to think logically, here. Conclude something about this experiment.

But I didn’t generate the hypothesis. Did he? How long has he been watching me? In those early dreams, he was always at my window. Why didn’t that scare me more, then?

Maybe thinking about it mathematically is a safer approach. Run the situation like a calculation.

 _One_ suicidal weirdo recluse with a hunger for intimacy and no emotional boundaries plus _one_ killer cannibal monster with a hunger for intimacy and no ethical boundaries _equals_ …best friends forever? Til death do us part?

Love is the problem. I am in love. None of this left-brain bullshit is going to explain that.

I’m in trouble.

 _Emotional_ trouble.

The worst kind.

He’s already way under my skin.

Let’s try the scientific method again.

 _Hypothesis: Twigs is real._  
_Experiment: Gather evidence that Twigs is real._

I’ve already been down this path. After the first sleepless night, regret compelled me back to the cottage. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or do, but I had to see him. There was no-one to be seen. I waited there all night and into the morning, and no-one came. There was still some food there, along with the bed and two chairs, but the knife and record player were absent. So was the leg of the murdered man. No evidence other than signs that the stag-man was gone. Some comforts left for me, like he knew I’d be there. He left two chairs, not one. Implying he might forgive me or I might forgive him…same difference. I gave up then on the idea of biological evidence. The only things he gave me were the whiskey…now empty, the bottle smashed…and two small twigs—

_Where were they?_

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, during the wet walk back from the cottage.

I hurried home to find that they were not in center of the kitchen table anymore.

Maybe I put them aside so I could use the table for something? No…they weren’t on the counter anywhere.

Did I destroy them? I didn’t exactly respect the whiskey, but the whiskey—although nice—wasn’t irreplaceable. The twigs were a different kind of gift.

Could I have been so careless as to absentmindedly put them in my pocket? Where had I gotten the twigs I'd put into the snowman?

I ran outside. The snowman had long since melted, so I searched the area around the picnic table. The surface of the snow had compacted and refrozen into a hard sheet of ice. I punched through it and tore the pieces away until my fists were numb and the snow tinged with red.

I found nothing.

The twigs were gone.

I’m not sure if I was screaming out loud. My mind was full of howling.

I gathered up the red snow and make another snowman on the picnic table. I snapped two twigs off of a tree and added them as antlers. I sat at the picnic table in the same position I was in right before he hit me with the snowball. I waited until I was sure that magic isn’t real.

Then I decided that whether I was about to die or not, my lawyer had recommended that I go ahead and have that sleep study as soon as possible, so I called and got an appointment for tonight. Now it’s 8 PM, and the sleep study tech is attaching small electrodes to areas of my scalp that he scrubbed with a scratchy tool. He’s way too close to me. He’s a large guy, sandy-haired, too much like Birk McCauley, and I’m already creeped out by the fact that he’s going to be watching me sleep. That is, if I can. I notice he’s speaking to me, or rather, there is a pause in his speaking, then, "Mr. Graham, you okay?"

"Would I be here if I were?"

"Huh?"

 _I want to die._ "I’m fine."

"Feel free to ask me any questions."

I revert to silently staring into space. Once my head is wired up, he puts something like an oxygen tube to my nose and tapes it in place, then loops two bands with sensors around my torso. A question does occur to me. "Can anyone really fall asleep like this?"

"You’d be surprised. Most people are out like a light."

Somehow, I don’t believe that will prove true for me. The tech hands me a plastic box connected to all the wires. Then he leaves me in the room, which is designed to look like a hotel room, including a bathroom. The bed is very comfortable and there are a preposterous number of different types of pillows to accommodate all manner of fussy sleepers. I choose one at random, as I have no real idea what works best for me.

I lie flat on my back, ensconced in pillows, and try not to stare at the dim red light of the infrared camera near the ceiling on the opposite wall. I try closing my eyes, but my eyelids feel twitchy. I turn on my side and gaze at the wall. The room is dark except for the camera, and here there's nothing to focus on. My vision is soon filled with cloudy undulating shapes that bloom and fade, pale and translucent against the dark background. Is this where the _counting sheep_ thing came from?

Earplugs were provided, but it's so quiet that they're unnecessary. I listen to the sound of my own breathing and watch the visuals for what feels like hours. Suddenly, I can't lie still any longer. I throw back the covers and stand up. The room is pitch dark. I feel along the walls for a light switch. I try for several minutes, to no avail. I finally arrive at the door to the hallway. It won't open.

I pry at the handle with all of my strength. It's locked. "What the fuck?"

I try to find the bathroom, to turn on the light in there. I feel around the perimeter of the room three times. There's only one door, the locked one that opens up into the hall. I pound on it with my fist and shout, "Hey! Let me out."

A voice crackles from a speaker in the ceiling, "Mr. Graham, try to relax."

For some reason, that terrifies me into backing up toward the bed, except I find there isn't a bed at all, only pillows strewn all over the floor. As I encounter the back wall, I realize it's padded, too. I'm in a padded cell.

I run toward the door and slam myself into it. It's soft now, like the walls. I feel for the handle again. It's gone. This isn't happening. "Please tell me this isn't happening."

"Try to relax, Mr. Graham."

"When did....why am I in here?"

"You needed some quiet time. You're under observation, remember?"

No, I don't. I look for the infrared camera. It's still there. I stare up at it and try to hide the panic in my voice as I ask, "Open the door, okay? I need some light."

"I can't do that."

"Please. I'm...uh...I don't feel good. I think I'm going to puke."

There's a pause. The voice speaks, "Sit down against the far wall, I'll bring you something."

The speaker switches off.

I sit against the wall as instructed. The door soon opens. A silhouette is standing in the rectangle of light. The man takes a step into the room and says, "Stay where you are. I've got some anti-nausea medication for you here, and some water."

He kneels down and puts a small paper cup on the floor, with a larger paper cup beside it. He stands up again and takes a step backward, toward the open door. Almost as an afterthought, he whispers, "I'm not surprised you feel sick, considering what you've been eating."

I can't see his face, but his voice is full of disgust. "What I've been eating?"

"You can pretend to the others that you didn't know, but I see you for what you are."

"What do you see?"

The light from the hall doesn't reach me here at the edge of the room. His head tilts down slightly, one shadow contemplating another. "A monster."

He knows. The door is open behind him. I've got nothing left to lose.

I rise from the floor and step forward. He's tall, but I'm taller. He tries to get away, but I'm too fast. My hands claw down both sides of his neck, carving deeply. The arteries release a shower of blood, warm against my skin. He clutches the wounds, and as he begins to fall to his knees I catch him with my claws, raking them up his abdomen until they lodge against his lowest ribs. I release my grip and let him fall onto his back. Now I can see his face, his eyes wide and terrified as he stares back at me. The blood pools out around him as he chokes and gurgles. As I step over the threshold I have to duck so I don't hit my antlers on the door frame.

The hallway is deserted. I find the exit. The cold night air feels like freedom. I feel perfect.

I gasp, blinking rapidly. I'm crouched over the lab tech, who is on his back in the middle of the floor. My folding knife is in my hand, covered in blood. His stomach is a mess of gaping cuts, his shirt hanging in tattered shreds soaked with red. He's pale and sweaty, staring up at me in disbelief. I glance around the room. No padding. Just the sleep study room. "No no no no no," I hear myself say.

I throw the knife aside and clamp my hands over what looks like the worst of the wounds as I scream for help. I scream over and over again until a nurse finally appears at the doorway.

I look up at her. She's talking but all I can hear is my own heartbeat. I cover my face with my hands. I feel myself sinking, drowning in dark water. Drowning at last.

Someone touches my shoulder. I open my eyes. I'm on the floor near the bed. There's a frightened looking female nurse staring down at me. The lab tech is kneeling beside me. He isn't hurt. There's no blood. He shakes my shoulder gently. "Mr. Graham, can you hear me?"

I jump up and back into the corner of the room. He takes a step toward me, reaching out a hand. My chest is heaving uncontrollably, as if I've been sobbing for a long time. Between gasps, I stammer, "D-don't come any c-closer! Don’t t-touch me!"

He stops. "Mr. Graham, you were screaming for help. You threw yourself against the door...please let me or Lacie help you."

"No! Please, d-don't touch me."

"Okay. All right. Stay here. I’ll call your psychiatrist."

The tech leaves. I shout after him, "What?!"

He doesn’t answer. The nurse stands flattened against the wall by the door. She’s young and no more than five feet tall. A bad choice to leave alone with a potential psychotic. Between gasps, I ask, "Are you scared of me?"

She immediately nods. I say, "I appreciate your honesty."

I sit in the chair in the corner and launch into my usual post-nightmare breathing routine, desperate to relieve the horrible sensation of drowning. I want to rip off the medical equipment, but my hands are useless, the wrists locked in flexion, the fingers extended, and the thumbs flexed in toward the palms. I say, "It’s just a panic attack."

She says, "Try not to fight it."

I lean my head back and focus on getting my breathing under control. The two bands around my chest aren’t helping, but I don’t want the nurse coming anywhere near me.

There are waves of panic. Sometimes I’m a good sailor. Today, not so much. I feel myself losing my grip in a new and special way.

At least a half an hour passes. When I open my eyes, the nurse is still in the room, but now she’s seated in a chair by the door. I catch her looking at her phone. She puts it away. "It’s okay, Lacie," I tell her. "You’re not scared anymore?"

She shakes her head. That makes me feel a little better. There are footsteps in the hall, getting louder. The tech appears in the doorway and says, "Dr. Lecter is here for you, Mr. Graham."

_Who the hell is that?_

The tech gestures for the nurse to get up and go with him. She stands up and says "feel better" to me as they leave. There’s a pause, during which I’m alone and everything is quiet. Then the doctor steps into the room.

When I see his face, my breath catches and stops. He says, "Hello, Will."

I rise and quickly close the distance between us. His face is equally stunning for its oddness as its handsomeness, with prominent cheekbones, a straight nose that is slightly snub at the tip, and a curving top lip that's a bit bigger than the bottom one. All of the shapes are exactly right, exactly like those of the stag-man, but this person has tawny skin, and hair that is turning silver. His eyes are red-brown. I can only meet his gaze for a second before I have to look elsewhere. He is dressed in a charcoal grey and blood red plaid suit, with a red silk tie. He’s about two inches taller than me, and more muscular than either Twigs or myself. I back away from him until my legs hit the chair. I fall into it. It would be putting it mildly to say that I’m once again having trouble breathing. Eventually, I manage, "I’m very confused."

"Perhaps I can help."

He sounds like Twigs. I don’t know what to do. After a pause, he asks, "May I come closer?"

Should I trust him? If he’s really my psychiatrist, who better to trust? Certainly not myself.

I nod. He brings the nurse’s chair next to mine on a diagonal. He seats himself and asks, "May I free you?"

My hands are locked up again. Embarrassed, I cross my arms and nod.

My body stiffens involuntarily as he begins to carefully remove the electrodes. I'm pinned to the chair. Slowly but surely, he liberates me from the tangle of wires. It's a relief to get the tube out of my nose and off of my face. Soon all that remains are the two elastic belts around my chest. I raise my arms out to my sides. He reaches under my shirt and undoes the belts deftly. "Ready to go?" he asks.

"Go where?"

"Wherever you want."

"Home."

He nods. He gets my shoe and slips it easily onto my foot, as if he’s practiced dressing me. Has he? At this point, anything is possible. He helps me into my coat and I follow him out. We don’t stop to talk to anyone. We go to the parking deck. He asks, "Let me drive you home in your car?"

My immediate impulse is to say yes. I want to be home, with my dogs. I want things to be the way they used to be, before any of this madness. The person standing beside me is so strange that it's nearly unbearable to be in his presence. Part of me wants to get away from him as soon as possible, and pretend that he doesn't exist. But there's another part that desperately needs answers. To finally be sure of what's real, and what isn't. "I've changed my mind. Take me to your place, Dr. Lecter.”


	11. Chapter 11

We proceed to his car, a black Bentley. He moves to open the passenger door for me, but I open it and get in.

He drives into Baltimore, to a beautiful old building. Despite my persistent fear, I'm amazed by the rooms we pass through. We enter what appears to be his office and library. There are two leather chairs, a large desk, a fireplace, and a couch. I take a lap around the room; hesitant to address the man himself, I hope to learn about him through his environment. It's elegant, dark, well-designed and exquisitely curated. The grey curtains are struck through with a bright swath of blood red. I stop and stare at a small statue of an elk, his black antlers bristling. Orange light begins to dance on its surface. I turn to see that Dr. Lecter has lit a fire in the hearth. He's watching me from behind his desk across the room.

We haven't spoken since the parking garage. I sense he's waiting for me to take the lead. This feels familiar. "Have I been here before?"

"Several times."

"I don't remember."

"You've been unwell."

I begin to slowly make my way closer to him. "You mean besides the broken ankle, insomnia, depression, anxiety, sleep disorder not otherwise specified, and borderline alcoholism?"

"Some of that may be related to your condition."

"My condition?"

"Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. Inflammation of the brain. It's affected your memory. I've been treating you."

"For how long?"

"Four months."

My legs feel weak. I sit down in one of the brown leather chairs near his desk. He remains where he is. I say, "Please explain."

"Four months ago, police found you walking at night along the road near your home. You were incoherent and agitated. Concerned that you might be under the influence, you were brought to the nearest hospital. Substance screening came back negative, and you were kept under observation for forty-eight hours. Your mental status did not improve during that time. The primary diagnosis was acute psychosis. You were given anti-psychotic medication, which was ineffective. Your doctor then consulted me, and soon we arrived at the correct diagnosis. It quickly became clear to me that the hospital environment was not conducive to your recovery, yet you required around-the-clock care and regular trips to a hospital to receive medical treatment specific to encephalitis. Next of kin could not be identified. I made arrangements to serve as your temporary guardian and moved you into my home."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"That's...um. Why?"

"I have a particular interest in disorders of the brain. Yours is quite rare."

"You wanted to study me."

"It was a unique opportunity. Best-practice treatment for this disorder is still being established. I accompanied you to Johns Hopkins for your treatments. You consistently perseverated on the need to take care of your dogs. At the time, you were unable to do so, so I hired someone I personally vetted to look after them while you recovered from the most harrowing portion of your illness. I suspect you don't remember much, if anything, from that time."

I shake my head. Tears roll down my face, but I don't bother wiping them away. "I remember...feeling feverish in mid-August...I thought it was the weather. But what you're saying...the hospital, being here...it's just missing. Now that I'm trying to remember, I don't recall September or most of October at all...until..."

Orange, bright as flames. The leaves had changed. Herman ran through the woods. There was Twigs, on the river bank. He smiled at me.

Dr. Lecter is waiting patiently for me to continue. I ask, "Are hallucinations a symptom?"

"Yes."

"In that case...I'm not sure I'm anywhere near well."

"You're currently hallucinating?"

It takes a lot of effort to look at him. His face is a blurry mask through my tears, but I can tell he looks human. "N-not currently. Up until a few days ago."

Moving very slowly, he comes around his desk towards me. My posture stiffens and I sit back in the chair, gripping the armrests. He lifts a hand and puts it to his own forehead, then reaches out slightly towards me. "May I?"

He wants to take my temperature? "Oh…kay."

He very gently rests his palm on my forehead. His touch is warm. "Good," he says, then removes his hand.

He gestures at his own wrist. He wants to take my pulse. I nod. He carefully cradles my wrist and presses the pads of his fingertips against the artery. Though he doesn’t have claws, he moves his hands as if they’re weapons. "Good," he repeats, and releases his hold.

He pauses before continuing, "Any lost time in the last few weeks?"

"I don't know."

He's looking at my bruised, swollen, and bloodied knuckles. "Were you in a fight?"

"Not with a person."

He nods. "Please, come."

He exerts firm but gentle pressure on my elbow, coaxing me to stand from the chair. He leads me into the dining room. One wall is covered in rows of planters in which a variety of herbs are growing. He pulls out a chair for me at the table. While I stare at the odd but fascinating decor, he vanishes and reappears with a shallow container of water and a small black case. He seats himself on a diagonal from me and again takes me gently by the wrist. I allow him to submerge my right hand in the water.

He didn't ask for permission this time. Maybe he thought I would refuse?

He very carefully cleans the wounds one by one, inspecting each cut and abrasion for embedded debris. He retrieves a roll of gauze from the bag and takes his time patting the raw flesh dry. He applies antibiotic ointment and wraps my knuckles with another piece of gauze. Then he turns his attention to my left hand and repeats the process. His ministrations sting slightly, but the physical pain is welcome, as it distracts me slightly from the terror gnawing at my mind.

I can't speak while he's touching me, but after the other hand is bandaged, I ask, "How long have I been outside of your...direct supervision?"

"I brought you back to your place the week of Halloween. However, my care—although no longer all-encompassing—is ongoing."

My face blushes hot as I ask my next question. "You didn't...happen to build a small stone cottage in the woods next to my property?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why'd you do that? To study me in my natural habitat?"

"I wanted to restore your privacy, yet I needed to be close. I designed it to be reminiscent of this place, in hopes it would be familiar to you and provide some comfort in that regard, even subconsciously."

"Isn't the location kind of inconvenient? I mean, you have to cross the creek every time."

"There's a bridge a bit downstream."

"Oh. I guess that's new, too."

He nods. I say, "You've done so much for me. Am I really that...interesting, to you?"

"Yes, Will."

The intensity of his professional curiosity makes me feel exposed. It's likely that he's actually seen me naked, considering how out of it I was. He seems completely devoted to my case, providing attention far beyond anything I'd ever expect from a doctor. I have no reason to doubt him.

What if I'm more sick than he realizes? "What do you think the sleep study showed?"

"I'll need to see the full report including raw data, but from what I gathered, it seems like night terrors or a REM sleep behavior disorder."

"What's that second one?"

"Acting out your nightmares."

"Is it possible that I could be violent in such a state?"

"Unintentionally, if your dream was violent."

I cover my face. "Dr. Lecter...anything I tell you...there's a law about confidentiality, right?"

"Everything we discuss is confidential, unless you're planning to hurt someone."

I shake my head. I'm trembling now, and can't sit still. I get up and pace the room, rubbing my arms. He says, "Let's go back to the other room. Would you like some tea? Or some whiskey?"

"Yes, please," I mumble, turning as I reach the hallway.

I'm drawn to the fire, though it can't alleviate the chill I feel at my core. I stare into the flames until I hear him enter the room. He holds a clear glass mug out to me, full of amber liquid. There's a cinnamon stick in it, along with a lemon slice studded with cloves. "Tea and whiskey," he says.

Despite everything, this makes me smile. I gingerly take the cup from him and say, "Thanks."

I take a sip. It's delicious. Sweet and hot and comforting.

Again, he waits for me to speak. I finish my drink slowly. I wander over to the brown chairs and place the empty mug on a small glass table. My back is to him, my fingertips gently resting on the arm of the chair for support, in case I feel faint. Acutely aware of the sound of my own voice, I say, "I think…I may have…killed someone."

His voice remains sedate as he replies, "Why do you think that?"

"The REM thing...and certain...hallucinations. Delusions. I've been...seeing this person. Monstrous, beautiful. He...looks like you. I think he’s not real…and I’ve done something terrible."

"He looks like me?"

"You have the same face."

I glance at the sculpture of the stag and continue, "I think my mind borrowed things I saw here...borrowed your face...for this...embodiment of hunger."

"Hunger for what?"

"Freedom. Intimacy. Someone who would miss me. The man I killed...reminded me that I'm weak. Alone. Imagining this magical being because I can't relate to people. Faced with that, I think I snapped."

"I understand why you feel unsettled, but there’s no evidence that you’ve done this. I’ve been in contact with your lawyer. The police are looking at other suspects. She told me that she’s been leaving you voicemails...have you been checking them?"

"Not for the past few days."

"Why are you convinced that you’re guilty?"

"Because I _feel_ guilty."

Softly, he says, "You didn’t do it."

"What makes you so sure?"

He repeats, " _You_ didn’t do it."

I see his shadow, cut out of the firelight, on the wall in front of me, antlers like a dark halo. I draw in my breath. "Twigs?"

"Yes, Will?"

I turn to face him, to meet his eyes. He looks like Dr. Lecter. His face is open, smiling sadly. I’m held there in his gaze, like something loved.

I find my voice, "Why are you wearing that human suit?"

"Am I?"

I nod. He looks away, down at the rug beneath his feet. It has a convoluted geometric pattern, like a labyrinth. I’m reminded of the myth of the Minotaur, a creature with horns that fed on human flesh.

Keeping his gaze averted, he makes his way toward me. Is this it? Is he finally going to kill me?

I sink into the chair. He sits down in the chair across from me, mirroring my posture. We sit in silence. We sit in silence for so long that my intense fear fades into something manageable. He's still letting me take the lead. Giving me as much power as he can. I ask, "For clarity's sake...how else were we…outside of the doctor-patient relationship…were we seeing each other?"

"Our sessions were uncommonly intimate. I’ve behaved in an unprofessional manner. I violated doctor-patient boundaries. I’m sorry."

I laugh. "Unprofessional...you think I care about that? That's...the least of our problems."

"Don't worry about the police. They'll find their suspect."

"Who?"

"You aren't in any danger."

"Who are you framing?"

"Someone who deserves to be framed."

"By your standards."

"I think you would agree with my judgment. He was a former patient, who admitted to me that he had once abducted and raped a child. He wanted my help to rid him of his persistent fantasies, which have driven him to attempt suicide on several occasions. He claimed that he had only acted on his sexual impulses once, but when I explored his home I found a collection of homemade pornographic videos featuring himself and co-starring underage participants engaging in clearly non-consensual acts."

Okay, that's bad. "What connection does he have to Birk McCauley?"

"They live within ten miles of each other. Birk has a criminal history of burglary. On Birk's computer, now in police custody, are a copy of one of the videos from the suspect's home and a draft of a blackmail letter. The police will put together that Birk broke into the suspect's home, found one of the videos, and proceeded to blackmail him with it. The final draft of the blackmail letter will be discovered at the suspect's home, along with blood evidence linking him to Birk's death. The envelope Birk put your money in is from the same stationary set that Birk used for the blackmail letter. Birk was hoping to use the suspect to pay off his debts. The suspect decided that murder was a better option. He retrieved his video—the original copy, which bears Birk's fingerprints—and hid it better this time, but the police will still discover his entire collection during their investigation. If they don't, I'll offer an anonymous tip. The prospect of going to prison as a murderer is daunting enough. As a pedophile it's intolerable, and will drive him to suicide."

"You've done this sort of thing before."

"Some people serve best as meat for my table."

I take a deep breath. "You did this because of what Birk did to me, but it seems like a lot of...effort...over a minor transgression."

He pauses. "I admit that my actions were impulsive. Where you're concerned I find I don't possess my usual degree of self-control. You've stirred in me a rare compassion."

"You said…you love me?"

"I do love you."

"When I was that sick, I was barely a person. How could you fall in love with a non-person?"

"I recognized you."

"You know me? I don't remember you. I don't even know your first name."

"Hannibal. We’d never met before. Still, I recognized you as someone I want in my world."

"You saw that you could influence me...shape me into someone who would accept you."

He's still gazing in my direction, but his expression shifts as he processes what I've said. His mask falls for an instant, and I see he's surprised. Doesn't he know how manipulative he is? "With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you, or own you at all. I can feed the caterpillar, I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches out follows its own nature and is beyond me."

I touch the back of my hand, where the stag-man first kissed me. It felt like gratitude. Some kind of submission.

Who is this person over which I hold such power?

I look at him. His eyes glint redly. I hold his gaze and allow the sensory details to crowd in on me. The exquisitely tailored suit with its network of blood red hints readily at danger through its glamour of eccentric but refined taste. The fine grain of his skin is graced with upwardly tilting crinkles around his eyes that imply he is a man who enjoys himself, and downward-canting lines that reveal a sorrow not so deep under the surface as he might hope to hide it. Everything he told me is true. The aroma of wood smoke is in the air, but beneath it I smell cologne, citrus-clean on the surface with an undercurrent of musk, of animal, curled around a core of striking green. The scent of a complex person, mysterious and genuine as a wilderness beyond a well-tended garden. His taste is on the tip of my tongue, in my stomach like a healing elixir. He wanted to taste me. I wanted to taste him, too. His touch is safe, careful yet confident. He doesn't want to hurt me, despite his ability to do so with cruel precision. His voice is soothing. He's calm, and calming. The things he's said to me are kind, understanding, respectful. He loves me, and I love him.

I can see him. He's right there. I fell in love with his shadow side first, is all. It's no less real. The same things that excited me about him then excite me now.

"Why don't I remember you like this...like Dr. Hannibal Lecter?"

"It was readily apparent that you don't trust doctors. Your suspicion protects you, considering your pure empathy. There's no diagnosis that describes you."

"Or you."

The tiny delicate creases in his upper lip vanish as he smiles. I've pleased him. He says, "Presenting myself as a doctor only spurred the agitation and paranoia brought on by illness. You would not speak with me or even make eye contact. I was motivated to try a different tack. I learned that your heart is a stream in the woods."

My skin erupts in goose flesh. It isn't unpleasant. I have another embarrassing question. "You didn't put on a really weird costume, did you?"

"I dressed like you. Became a mirror to you. You began to engage me in conversation, as if seeing me for the first time. Your memory was rapidly improving at that point. What do you recall?"

"I gave you an apple. We went fishing together, ate lunch at the picnic table. Then...I broke my ankle."

"I feel responsible for that incident, because you would not have been likely to wander in that direction if not for my presence."

"You didn't cause my sleepwalking. I remember...expecting to see you in the hospital, for some reason."

"I followed the ambulance, but because I had released my guardianship by then, they would not allow me to see you."

"Oh. Didn't you have privileges, as my doctor?"

"I had also officially discharged you from my care, considering that our relationship had changed. I wanted to be your friend and lover, not your doctor."

I want to run my hands through his hair, to kiss him, embrace him.

I realize suddenly that I'm not horrified by what he's done. The guilt I feel is based on what that lack of horror says about me. What kind of monster it makes me. If it's anything like the one I'm with, is that so bad?

Who else could understand either of us, except each other?

Now it's clear to me what I wanted to say to him at the cottage, when I waited and he did not return. "I will never ask you not to follow your own nature. I'm sorry I threatened you with a knife."

"I forgive you. I'm sorry if I shocked you."

"You didn't. I already knew. I was in denial about myself. I feel...strange, even now."

"Give it time."

"Is there time? Is there more to our story?"

"I'd like there to be."

"Me, too."

We regard each other in silence for a few minutes, motionless in our respective chairs. He asks, "Allow me to show you the rest of the house?"

I nod, nervous as always. He shows me the kitchen. He shows me the basement where he does his butchering, and gauges my reaction. After seeing his root cellar at the cottage, I'm not surprised.

He shows me his backyard garden, full of raised beds. We re-enter the house and ascend the stairs to the upper level. He makes a point of opening every door for me, as if wanting to free all secrets. His bedroom, the walls of which are painted a deep blue-grey, also has a fireplace. We don't linger in there. Although I long for us to touch, I'm nervous now that he looks so human. I'm less sure than ever how to behave.

He leads me to a parlor-like room with a marble floor. He approaches a small piano and says, "I'd like to play for you."

"By all means."

Once he begins, I realize that it's not a piano but a harpsichord. The crystalline sound echoes slightly off the walls. I do a lap around this room like the others. There's a fireplace here, too, with wrought-iron tools. I rest my hand on the poker. Hannibal's back is to me and I could probably crack his skull open if I wanted to. He trusts me.

I continue my circuit around the room, pausing to gaze out of the tall windows. It's three AM, still far from dawn, and we creatures of the night are happy here, together.

Hannibal is a talented musician, in addition to his other skills. I wonder what he really sees in me.

I approach him slowly from behind, my heart hammering. I reach over his shoulder, hook my finger through the knot of his tie, and ease it loose.


End file.
